by Marian Tee
Ten minutes passed and there were still no signs of Angelo coming back anytime soon.
It’s okay, Lane told herself determinedly even as tension made her feel like a ticking bomb. She tried to relax, but more and more the dining room’s tastefully lavish décor felt like it was grinning hungrily at her, turning into an inanimate monster that was just waiting, waiting for its chance—
She bolted out of her seat and ran for the doors, throwing them open. She was unaware that the guards had also burst into action the first second she moved.
“Signorina!”
She instinctively looked over her shoulder—
Oh my God, they had their guns out!
Lane froze and threw her hands up.
They reached her side in the next second.
“What’s wrong, signorina,” the shorter one demanded.
“Is Signor Valencia under threat?” the older one asked.
It took Lane more than a few moments to realize that they weren’t about to shoot her. When panic allowed her to brain to start functioning again, she cringed in horrified realization and stammered, “No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing like that.”
Their arms slowly lowered.
Unable to fault them for still looking suspicious, she apologized again, “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean to startle you.” She cleared her throat. “I had a…panic attack.”
The two gazed at her like she was mental.
Well, she probably was, in their eyes.
She said, “Never mind.” Here in the hallway, it was less…opulent, and her body started to relax, her breath gradually returning to normal. “Can I, umm, just stay here for a sec?”
They nodded, still gazing at her like she was a living oddity.
“You don’t need to keep me company.”
“We will stay here if you please, signorina. It is our duty,” the older one said simply.
Right.
In that case—
She stuck her hand out. “I’m, umm, Lane Petersen, by the way.” While she did feel awkward because of her panic attack, Lane wasn’t at all nervous around both men. Bodyguards were the good guys, after all. Bodyguards knew where all the exits were, and more importantly, they weren’t filthy rich.
The shorter guard was the first to answer, saying, “It is nice to meet you, signorina. I am Fico.”
“And I am Umberto,” the older one said.
But both didn’t make any move to shake her hand, forcing to Lane to hide her ignored hand in her pocket. I hope they don’t think I was being aggressive, she thought worriedly. It did not occur to Lane at all that both Fico and Umberto considered a handshake with her as something above their station.
Silence again.
Determined to befriend them, she asked, “So…have you guys been working for Angelo long?”
The guards exchanged looks, thinking that this was the first woman their employer dated who hadn’t treated them like they were invisible.
“I’ve been with the boss for four years, signorina,” Fico offered.
“Five for me,” Umberto said.
“And how is it, working for him?” she asked curiously. “Because I was his student once last semester, and as a professor, he was very much easygoing.” She thought of how all the girls in her class had fallen for him, and she added glumly, “Too charming for his own good, too.”
Fico and Umberto struggled to hide their grins. They were used to the boss’ dates being jealous and possessive and had considered it unbecoming. But somehow, this little one was different.
“He is the same as a boss,” Fico said. “But he is also a perfectionist, signorina. He expects us to show the same dedication he does to his own work.”
“Can you tell me stories about him?” she asked eagerly.
“What kind of stories?”
“Any. Like, what does he do when you have to drive him and he’s all alone in the backseat?”
“Well…”
And so the bodyguards ended up taking the role of storyteller with the boss’ date as their eager and appreciative audience.
Lane giggled and gasped at their stories, and she was so entranced that she failed to hear the sound of incoming footsteps, failed to sense what her sixth sense was warning her about—
By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late.
Three men were heading their way. They were about Angelo’s age, all of them attractive, well-dressed, and completely intoxicated.
“Are you certain Valencia won’t mind?”
“We’re going to share with him the hottest little M in town. What’s there to complain about?”
“She cost us a pretty sum, too, so that girl better be worth every fucking dollar.”
The laughter that followed made Lane’s skin crawl.
“Fucking. Dollar. Get it?”
This time, all men laughed, and Lane wanted to throw up.
Her throat was tightening, and she could literally feel herself running out of oxygen.
She saw them and she didn’t see them, her mind shoved back into the past.
It was her first time to meet her grandfather, and he had told Lane he wanted to speak in private with Laura. So she had left them, standing obediently outside the door, fidgeting with excitement.
And when the waiting had become intolerable, she had giggled and tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear to it—
“Blow me, slut, and maybe, just maybe I’ll let you in my household. My daughter-in-law during the day, my whore at night—
When she opened her eyes, it was to find the three men staring at her, and she could see her grandfather in every one of them.
Her grandfather, one of his hometown’s wealthiest and most outstanding citizens—
Her grandfather, whose heart was as rotten as the pimps and prostitutes she had grown up with—
Her grandfather, who had been the first person in her life to use the word ‘slut’ in her presence—
One of them stepped forward, his lascivious gaze running over Lane’s curves. Without taking his eyes off her, he licked his lips and asked the guards, “Is she Angelo’s newest plaything?”
Fico and Umberto stiffened, both of them reluctant to answer the question. The truth was, all the women their employer had brought to the house had indeed been playthings. And while they wanted to think this new one was different—
The men started to crowd towards her.
I’m not going to panic, she told herself determinedly.
But then one of them laughed, the sound an exact mirror of how her grandfather had laughed at her face when he told Lane her mother would always be a slut in his eyes—
Lane screamed.
Chapter Eight
A luxuriously appointed bedroom gradually came into view as Lane’s eyes slowly drifted open. As her sight cleared, her memory returned, every sickening second of it. She quickly turned, her heart racing at the thought that perhaps the men were in the same room—
But all she saw was her fallen angel seated by her bedside, his back rigidly straight, a taut look on his handsome face.
“Angelo?” She pushed herself up on the bed, moving too quickly for her own good, and her temples throbbed.
“Don’t move so fast.” His voice was quiet and reserved, and she didn’t know what to make of it. “Take a sip.” He held a glass of her water to her lips, holding it for her, and she slowly took a sip while gazing at him.
But his face gave nothing away.
She watched him set the glass back on the table when she was done, and when he turned to her, she blurted out worriedly, “T-the party?”
“You don’t have to worry about it,” he answered briefly. “It’s all been taken cared of.”
Her heart squeezed as she translated his polite answer to one word: canceled. She gazed at him uncertainly, wondering if that was why he seemed so distant.
“I have a doctor waiting outside,” Angelo was saying, “and I would appreciate it if you allow him to
check on you.”
Knowing he wasn’t really giving her a choice, she nodded.
“Good.” He stood up and left the room, and unease stirred inside of her. This tension…it didn’t feel like it was just about the party anymore. Something was really wrong. She just wished she knew what it was.
When the door opened again, it was the doctor, and the usual questions were asked. She answered them calmly and truthfully. She knew, after tonight, there was no point hiding anything. When the doctor departed, Angelo came back a few moments later.
She looked at him, and Lane thought, He knew.
And he did.
Angelo lowered himself back on the padded chair next to her bed. “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”
“Good,” she said automatically.
“You’re not suffering from any concussion, and after a good night’s sleep, the doctor believes you’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”
“And the bad?”
He said without hesitation, “You might be crazy, after all.”
She choked and laughed at the same time, not at all expecting someone like Angelo Valencia to make such a joke. But he did, and it worked, the atmosphere in the room easing.
When her laughter faded, he asked gently, “Would you like to tell me what made you panic like that? And this time, there were no cars around.”
She winced. “I lied about that. I’m sorry.”
“I figured as much.” His voice was matter-of-fact.
“Are you mad?” The words came out haltingly, and her hands moved restlessly under the covers as she spoke.
“Of course not.” And there it was again, that odd note of reserve, like he was deliberately putting a wall between them. “But I would like to know what happened, if you’re comfortable talking about it.”
She swallowed, realizing that the time had come to lay all of her crazy cards on the table.
And after—
After, it was up to Angelo to decide.
“I h-have a social anxiety disorder.” Cold sweat bathed Lane’s skin as she admitted the truth, and she had a perverse, childish urge to hide under the covers.
If only she could close her eyes and wish they were back to being normal.
If only.
But the pain in her heart – it wasn’t the good kind of pain, not the kind that Angelo made her feel and crave.
This pain…was cruel.
This pain told her what she wanted was impossible.
This pain told her she would always be sick.
Taking a deep breath, she continued, “My anxiety is a s-special form of plutophobia—” Lane saw Angelo’s head snap towards her, his gaze incredulous.
“Are you saying you’re afraid of money?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Not exactly.” The way he stared at her made Lane’s fists clench, but she pressed on doggedly, “I’m more afraid of rich people.”
Silence.
And then it was as if shock had shorn Angelo of his usually unfailing courtesy as he demanded, “Are you fucking serious?”
Lane flinched.
“Rich people? You’re afraid of rich people?”
She gave him a small nod.
“Rich people…like me?”
Paling, she nodded again.
“Dio, Lane.” Frustration underlined Angelo’s voice. “That’s the worst illness you could possibly suffer from in my home. You know that, right?”
“Y-yes.” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
He raked a hand through his hair. “And what about CU? What the hell did you even think you were doing, enrolling in a school like CU?”
“It w-works like my therapy,” Lane answered stiltedly. “Sort of like confronting your fears until you get used to it.” Her voice trailed off at the way he was looking at her, which told her he might have her certified any moment.
Angelo was staring hard at her. “And that time in the car?” he asked finally, his voice grim.
She could see in his gaze that he had already figured out, and she said tremulously, “I know it’s stupid, but it was only that moment I realized you were rich—”
“Didn’t you even think of looking me up on the Internet?”
“I try not to use the Internet to search for people. It’s just unnecessary…trauma.”
Silence.
And then Angelo asked tautly, “Are you still afraid of me?”
Slowly, she shook her head.
“But you were afraid of me earlier?”
She nodded.
“What changed?”
“You laughed.”
He stared at her. “Is this crazy language?”
A nervous giggle escaped her. “N-no. I mean, your laugh. It reminds me of a fallen angel.”
“Still crazy language?”
She tried to explain. “It was what drew me to you t-that first day. The sound of your laugh, it was refreshingly—” Lane hesitated.
“Say it.”
“It was refreshingly bad,” she mumbled.
Angelo’s eyebrows shot up.
Words rushed to her throat, so many of them that she knew if she tried to say all of them she would just end up speaking gibberish.
Closing her eyes, she pretended she was hearing his laugh, and as the sound washed over her, so vivid it almost made her want to grasp the sound and never let go, she remembered the other fallen angel in her life.
The words spilled out of her.
“Your laugh, it reminds me of my mother.” Lane’s voice was tight with remembered pain. “She was kind, but she wasn’t perfect.” And without looking at him, she told Angelo everything. Every humiliating, heartbreaking thing that by the time it was over, she could barely breathe from all the wounds it had reopened in her heart.
She opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was Angelo’s ashen face.
“I’m sorry, Lane.”
Oh.
Memories of her grandfather were agonizing.
The strangers in the hallway were terrifying.
But none of those things had threatened to break Lane the way her heart started to shatter at hearing Angelo call her…
Lane.
Like she was no one, and her name was just letters stitched together.
No ‘tesoro.’
No ‘my Lane.’
Was she just Lane now because he knew the truth?
****
“I’m sorry.” Angelo felt he had to repeat the words when only silence answered him. He waited for her to say something, but there was none. He raised his gaze to hers—
And that was when he heard it.
Lane’s cry of pain, silent, broken, and coming not from her lips but her heart.
His chest clenched at the soundless tangible cry, but he told himself he couldn’t let it get to him.
And then Lane started to speak in a painful rush.
“Y-you may not believe me, but I’m usually b-better at controlling t-these things. It’s been years since the last time I fainted. I’m not lying. I just need to be mentally prepared, and normally I am—” She had to stop because she could no longer breathe, the fear was just too great. She was afraid of losing him, of having him turn his back on her without giving this – them – a chance.
But Angelo didn’t say a thing, only stared at her, and terror threatened to eclipse her world.
“I’m usually better, Angelo, please believe me, I don’t faint every day. It’s just that your wealth took me by surprise, and then I saw your house—” She knew she should stop to sort herself out, but the words just kept coming, like they were the only way to stop the tears. “It was one thing after another, and then when those men came—”
Angelo flinched. “Lane—”
Don’t call me that, she wanted to scream, and a sob caught in her throat.
Fuck. The despair in her gaze seared him.
“I’m better now,” Lane insisted. “I won’t be taken by surprise again, I promise. I mean it,
Angelo.”
And then she tried to smile, and it was like seeing an invisible wound—
A wound he alone could see, a wound he alone could stop from bleeding.
And because he knew this, Angelo hardened his heart.
He said nothing.
He did nothing.
He only gazed impassively at her, telling himself that the only way to give her a quick, clean break was to let her…bleed.
Seconds ticked by, and the continued silence tore at Lane.
Was he truly not going to say anything?
Was he truly going to let things between them end just like that?
“Please say something,” she choked out.
But there was only silence, tearing her apart, again and again, and she blurted out, “Is this your w-well-mannered way of telling me that it’s been fun while it lasted—” Hysteria tinged Lane’s voice. “Or m-maybe you’re going to say other clichéd thing? It’s not you, it’s me, and all that bull?”
But Angelo’s lips only tightened at her words.
She shook her head furiously. “N-no. I get it. You’re just pulling my leg again. You’re being s-sadistic…right?”
Slowly, he shook his head, and then he said simply, “No.”
Lane whitened.
No?
More sobs tried to claw out of her throat as she tried to digest it in.
No, he was not being sadistic.
No, he was not pulling her leg.
No, he wasn’t pretending, but he simply wanted to send her away.
So go, Lane’s mind begged her.
Leave now before you completely lose what little pride you have left.
Do it with dignity.
And Lane wanted to do it.
Her pride demanded it.
But then she remembered Laura’s words, remembered how Laura didn’t regret taking the risks she took because she had wanted to seize every new day in her life, and Lane knew she owed it to herself not to give up.
She whispered, “Please don’t send me away.”
Angelo stiffened.
“I p-promise I won’t cause you any trouble again.”