by V. F. Mason
I opened my mouth and was about to reply, when suddenly the scenery changed.
Instead, a dark-haired man with an awful dragon tattoo loomed over me, an arm on each side of my head, as I tried unsuccessfully to push him away. “Rosa,” he chuckled, pressing his erection into my abused flesh. “Finally.”
My eyes snapped open as my scream echoed in the room. My body was drenched in sweat. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I tried desperately to suck air into my lungs.
The door opened swiftly. Then Ciara ran in and wrapped her arms around my shoulders while patting my back soothingly. “Shhh, Angelica. It was just a nightmare,” she chanted, while my heart beat rapidly against my ribcage.
Closing my eyes, I wished I could go back to the part of the dream where a handsome man called me his krasavica and everything seemed right in the world.
Even if it only lasted for a second in the night.
Florence, Italy
September 2017
“Eh, are you sure you are engaged, belissima? Maybe I should steal you from your intended, huh?” Tilting my head back, I giggled, all the while making sure the IV drip was put in place correctly and Mr. Piero’s pulse was monitored.
“Afraid it can’t be done.”
He nodded, but his eyes still glinted with mischief. “Too bad, but at least he treats you right.”
As the liquid flowed into his system, I patted his arm gently and gave him my forced smile. I’d become quite an expert at that since no one could shut up about Oliver. “You’re all set, Piero.” I turned away to go to another patient, but he grabbed my hand and, to my surprise, squeezed it hard. As much as the old man liked to joke and chat, never once had he tried anything more. Instantly, my survival instincts went on alert as the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Why I had such a reaction whenever any male touched me, I had no clue, but there it was.
Noticing my tension, he let me go immediately, and then softly murmured, “Never do in life something you don’t want. It never ends well.”
Okay, maybe I wasn't as good as I thought at faking happiness about the upcoming wedding.
Without reply—because really, what could be said in this situation anyway—I spun around and marched out, leaning against the wall between the rooms and closing my eyes to gather myself for a second.
The hallways of the surgical floor in the hospital reeked of antiseptic and bleach, and sometimes I wished I could bathe in the scent so it would wash away all my fears and doubts.
After a month of unsuccessfully trying to become inspired with the whole art thing, I was ready to call it quits. Ciara was against it, but advised me to go visit the hospital where I frequently left my ceramic toys in the pediatric wing to cheer up some kids. Having found some in stock and being so freaking ready to run away from the studio, I agreed without much thought.
Stepping inside felt like coming home after a long journey, and the energy and adrenalin pulled me in. I stayed for hours watching the ER, where doctors tried their best to help everyone. And then I did something that changed my life.
A woman screamed that she needed a fucking bandage, because she couldn't take any more pain from her burns and cuts, but no nurse or doctor seemed to pay her any attention.
Instinctively, I rushed toward her. Then my hands of their own accord, without my brain registering the action, removed the damaged skin, spread ointment on the burns, wrapped her hands tight, and gave her a sedative, because she was almost hysterical. Checking her heartbeat a few times, I was satisfied and ready to leave, when I saw two surgeons who looked at me dumbstruck.
After that, they asked me if I’d like to work there, and I said yes.
And never had I been happier than during the hours spent in the hospital, where past ghosts didn't haunt me. Although I knew Vito had something to do with my employment, as no one hired interns without checking their background, I didn’t care. I was supervised for the first month, but it was as if muscle memory kicked in. They just mostly watched me, bored, as I didn't need any instructions.
My safe harbor.
My phone vibrated loudly in my pocket, and I gazed down to read that Mother was calling me. Taking a deep breath, I answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Mama.”
“Where are you?” she asked sharply.
Taken aback by her attitude, I replied, “At the hospital.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning!” Her screeching was so loud I had to pull the phone back a little and winced. “A well-educated girl should not be out so late. We have a wedding in ten days!”
“Mother—” I started, fully intending to change the subject and cursing myself for not remembering the wedding dress fitting that was to take place in the morning. She didn't let me finish though. The mood she was in led me to believe Dad didn't spend the night at home either.
As I’d discovered in the last few months, their married life was just a charade, and right then, I couldn't blame my dad.
“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care when you show up in the morning. You will go to this fitting.” She hung up the phone, and I was left standing there with a racing heart as a nurse on the phone pointed for me to go to the room where a patient needed his daily dose of medication.
The rest of the night, I was constantly busy, and once my shift was done, I sat on the bench in the locker room and wondered when the hell control of my life was given to my family.
During the ride home, I remember the words Piero told me, and in that moment, I intended to end it.
Even if it meant losing my family in the process.
Florence, Italy
September 2017
Rosa
“Oh my God, this dress is perfect,” Ciara squealed, wiping away the tears sliding down her cheeks. Female gasps followed, while women in the bridal salon seemed mesmerized by the vision I made in white.
It was a lace-up mermaid dress, made out of the finest material, with a corset, which hugged my waist perfectly, emphasizing the fullness of my breasts and my tiny waist. The skirt trailed after me several inches, and since Mama and Ciara planned some kind of waterfall hairdo for me, it was decided I didn't need a veil.
Yeah, beautiful.
Too bad my insides screamed at me to rip it off and throw it away, and then run for my life, far from here. From the voices in my head that cried at the idea of my marriage with Oliver.
“He’ll fall in love with you all over again,” Ciara added, and something akin to pain flashed through her expressive green eyes, but it was quickly replaced with happiness. Her black heels clicked softly on the carpeted floor as she placed the empty champagne glass on the table, and it allowed me to study my sister closer. Her knee-length, strapless, green, summer dress highlighted her naturally tanned skin, which somehow glistened in the sun. Her shiny brown hair fell down her back in wild locks, bouncing with each sway of her hips. She had a fit form, except her ass. Her perky bottom attracted attention from men wherever we went.
In other words, my sister was a knockout who enjoyed men immensely.
At least, that was the observation I had made in the months spent in her company. “How was Paris?” For the sake of my sanity, I decided to change the subject. Ciara’s favorite thing to do was sing the praises of my fiancé, and between her and my mom, I wasn't sure I could take it anymore.
She wiggled her nose in disgust. “Awful. Seriously, Jean is not the man I thought he was. I was bored out of my ever-loving mind. Next time I decide to date some artist, remind me it’s a bad idea.” She stood up from the blue couch and adjusted her dress, sliding it lower to cover up her thighs. “In all honesty, giving up men seems like a good plan at this point,” she proclaimed, and with this, finished her glass and picked up another.
Shaking my head in amusement, I replied, “You said the same thing the last time. With… was it Dino or Dan?” My brows furrowed, while my mind searched for the name of her last boyfriend from a few weeks ago.
“I dated both of them at the same time,
” she added and laughed. “Those idiots.” Ciara didn't elaborate on the reasons for her breakups, just always said they were either boring or idiots. I couldn't help but wonder if this excessive dating was normal. Not the idea of it, because women sure as hell could date whoever they wanted to. But how she breezily acted with men, changing them like gloves, didn't add up with her personality as a whole.
“Ouch,” I exclaimed, as the seamstress, a young woman in her thirties, dug painfully into my skin with a needle, and she murmured, “Sorry, it’s just that you keep losing weight, and we have to adjust the size.” She pulled the corset together tighter across my back, almost squeezing the breath out of me.
How could I even think about food when a life-altering decision was nine days away and it scared me to death?
“Thank God, I convinced you to change your mind about green,” Mom said, as she joined us with a pair of open-toed five-inch heels covered in white silk. She placed them beside my feet and motioned for me to try them on. Pushing my right foot into it, I asked with a frown, “What do you mean?”
Ciara rolled her eyes, took her phone from her purse, scrolled up on her photo timeline to about a year ago, and stopped on the picture of a mesmerizing emerald ballerina-like dress with a long lace train like my current dress. “Remember how you tried it on and scared the shit out of both of us? Imagine attending the wedding wearing this.” Grabbing the cell from her hands, I zoomed in, studying myself in the picture.
Somehow the girl in the photo was me but not me at the same time. She posed, leaning to the side and blowing a kiss to the camera, while her eyes beamed with happiness as they sparkled with laughter and mischief. Her skin glowed while her high cheekbones stood out on her gorgeous face. A diamond ring shined on her finger, reflecting the sun, and the picture could easily have been used in a bridal magazine; that was how photogenic she was.
A freaking ring that weighed heavily on my hand and one I dreamed of throwing in the ocean and never seeing again. My favorite part of the day was the evening, where I could hide in my room, remove it, and not suffocate at the mere thought of Oliver.
Raising my eyes to the mirror in front of me, I focused on my reflection, almost crying out in desperation because I couldn't find the woman from a year ago.
My eyes held only pain and confusion while my face was somewhat different along with my shape, even if I had lost a bit of weight. My shoulder-length hair had just recently started to grow. My neck, collarbone, and several other places still held burn scars, which no amount of plastic surgery had fixed.
Shaking my head from the memories, I smiled weakly and stepped down from the high bench, removing the dress in the process along with the shoes. “I still want to explore Florence before we go back. Can we schedule the same time next week?” Tara, the tailor, agreed eagerly and before Mom could protest, because apparently the woman was a momzilla when it came to wedding preparations, I pleaded, “Mama, please.” Her face softened as she sighed in defeat, while Ciara thumbs-upped me, essentially giving me the green light to go, understanding I needed my privacy.
Quickly changing, I rushed outside and inhaled the scent of the city, and some anxiety left me.
In those few moments of alone time, I didn't have to pretend I was happy or that everything was fine.
In those few moments, I could acknowledge the fact my life had become one long nightmare from which, no matter how much I tried, I couldn't escape.
My short, skater dress covered with colorful blooming roses swirled lightly in the gentle breeze coming from the edge of the sea, and I welcomed it. With my head tilted back, I enjoyed the sunlight on my cheeks. Brown sunglasses protected me from the bright sunlight and allowed me to study the beauty of Florence.
A magnificent city.
I was on the main street where all the shopping happened alongside various cathedrals and buildings filled with famous paintings. One of the best things about this city was the fact that no matter where you went, art surrounded you in its purest and most beautiful form.
Leonardo Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rafael. I could have looked at the work of those men forever. Renaissance, the rebirth era, was still my favorite of all the eras.
“Happy we are here?” Strong hands wrapped around my waist and pulled me back to his muscled chest, and I willed myself not to wince. He pushed the hair from my neck and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You always loved Florence. This’s where I proposed to you.” Oliver’s voice, husky and deep, did nothing to me, and for the hundredth time, I wondered why I ever considered marrying him.
Although, all those framed photos of us enjoying cruises, Europe, and ski resorts proved we once shared an unbreakable bond. The woman in those pictures seemed in love, even if I couldn't recognize it.
Not that he wasn't hot—quite the opposite, actually. He had a James Dean haircut, blond hair, and olive skin that gleamed perfectly in the sun. His lean yet muscular body caught the attention of many women. The man looked gorgeous in suits.
But something about his touch always seemed wrong.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I murmured. “I didn’t know you were back.”
Oliver had some serious business to attend to in the States. He didn't really share what, but he wanted to be done with everything before our wedding, which was supposed to happen in a few days.
Yay freaking me.
No matter how many times I started the conversation about postponing it with my family, they refused, claiming it all had to do with the accident, and someday, my memory would come back to me. But how could I be anyone's wife in the meantime, if I couldn't remember loving the man?
Just the idea dimmed the beauty in front of me, and it no longer excited me.
“I wanted to surprise you.” He spun me around, palming my face. “Did my girl miss me?” He leaned down, his lips a breath away from mine, but before he could press them to me, I shifted my head to the side, so his soft lips grazed my cheek lightly. Since waking up in the hospital, we didn’t even share one willing kiss. He chuckled as mischief played in his eyes. “Still so innocent. But I’m willing to wait.”
The idea of sharing a bed with him caused me to be nauseous. Before I could answer, he announced, “My business partner came with me. He agreed to attend the wedding. Dominic Konstantinov.” Oliver wrapped his hand around my shoulder and turned us to the side. I came face-to-face with the most magnificent yet dangerous-looking man I’d ever seen.
His soul-piercing eyes clashed with mine as my breath hitched.
They held so much inside, and everything in me wanted to shake the hold Oliver had on me and run with all my might toward the stranger. Both of us took a step toward each other as my mind blocked out everyone else, and when he stopped, his perfect mouth spread in a welcoming smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Angelica.”
Of their own accord, my hands closed over the cross hanging from my neck, and his attention focused there. I wondered why—through all this year after the car accident, when I was surrounded by my family and the man who loved me, and who I supposedly loved back—the voice of this stranger created a protective, safe cocoon around my heart.
Dominic
She was mine.
Mine.
No one else’s.
Rosa
By Oliver’s frown, my shocked silence had lasted too long. “I….” My voice shook, and I swallowed before clearing my throat and once again plastering a smile on my face. “Nice to meet you too.” My cheeks heated from his intense stare that created an unusual awareness inside me. Men didn't evoke any emotions within me, yet Dominic just needed a second to change that.
Virgins didn't have it, or at least everyone around me claimed so. I had no desire to explore a physical relationship with Oliver. Ciara liked to point out my lack of experience whenever I blushed when she mentioned some sexual position. Especially when she spoke of how oral sex sucked, and images of an aroused woman lost in pleasure with a dark-haired man between her thighs came to
mind.
Not that I could ever share it with anyone else. They already considered me crazy.
The amnesia resulting from the car accident didn't leave any memories inside my bruised head, and more often than not, I detested it. Especially when my family came up with the weirdest things, claiming they were my favorites. Surely in that case, I’d feel some joy or happiness doing them?
Maybe then, my body wouldn't react to strangers while my fiancé stood next to me.
“Forgive her, Dom,” Oliver chuckled. “She’s shy.” Dominic’s eyes flashed fury, but it was gone so quickly I thought I imagined it.
“Is she now?” By the way he asked this question, almost mockingly, it seemed like he thought I was anything but. “Like a good Sicilian girl.” His murmured words burned me, and unsettling feelings washed over me.
I snapped, “And you are familiar with them, Dominic?” God, why did saying his name feel so good? And why the hell did the idea of him and another woman make me see red, and my heart ache in pain at the same time? As if he had no right to know other Italian women but me.
Mine.
Are you out of your freaking mind, Angelica?
Maybe those were some of the consequences about which the doctor warned us. Sometimes patients acted irrationally around people or situations, more so if they triggered or disturbed the mind. However, how could this stranger do it, considering we had never met before?
I should have listened to everyone and continued attending my sessions with the psychologist assigned to me by the hospital. But in my defense, you could only answer the question “How did it make you feel?” for so long until it started annoying the living shit out of you.
Dominic’s barely visible satisfied grin blinded me for a second as it mesmerized me—the image of a park appeared as a flash of a movie clip with him running toward me and kissing the shit out of me—while I stood stunned and disoriented. Lifting my fingers to my lips, I rubbed them gently, as they still burned from the imaginary kiss.