Luca POV
Isabella obnoxiously slurps her miso soup from next to me, taking a break from her incessant reprimands at me, to instead focus on her ridiculously expensive food, while simultaneously pretending I don't exist.
When she insisted we went to this restaurant in Manhattan— Masa, I believe,— I did not know it would mean endless appetizers, and therefore more time for her to either grill me, or act like my presence is of no importance to her.
"You know?" She begins between a mouthful of noodles, leaning back in her dress, and I prepare myself for yet another outburst of rage. "I think it's really time for you to admit you're not over her."
I tense. Of course I'm not fucking over her.
But I will never tell her that. It's not part of the plan.
Taking a slow sip of my scotch, I swallow thickly and spare her a single glance and a simple shrug.
She scoffs. "Not this nonchalant bullshit again. You literally flipped out this afternoon because I tried on her literal dress."
My grip on the shallow glass tightens. It's true, she tried on that gold number Ivy wore at the gala, and I did exactly that: flipped. I wanted it to stay just the way it was, I cleaned it for her right after she left that next morning, although I had considered leaving it dirty so if she came back to retrieve it she would have to stay just a little longer.
Stupid, I know.
But I haven't touched it ever since, it's hung from a hook next to my closet, right where I want it. I don't want anyone tampering with her things. It's— It's all I have left of her. And damn it if I want to keep it.
"It was very cute." My mom notes. "If only my waist was small enough to fit in that."
Isabella whistles. "Trust me, Ma. Her body is to die for. I don't think I could achieve it even if I became a SoulCycle trainer. Ugh, and her ass is fucking perfect. Perky but not fake and not too—"
"Stop fucking talking about her like that." Of course I'm well aware of her more than generous curves, the slope of her waist to her round ass, long legs that wrap perfectly around my hips, and God her pussy... Needless to say, my right hand and I are well acquainted. That however, does not mean I appreciate this tone of conversation.
"Ooooh. It's the feminist of the century." Iz mocks
as I set my glass down and zone out the hushed voices around us, turning my head to gaze out the large windows. My penthouse building is almost visible from here, the top of it peaking over various other skyscrapers.
I struck a deal with Achille to allow them to stay with me, to ensure that they're safe while I act as a pawn in his little fucked up game.
Acting— that's all it is.
I just hope she sees that.
"Hellooooo!" Isabella's waves a hand in front of my face, successfully snapping me out of my daze. I jolt my head in her direction and narrow my eyes at her annoyed expression. "Finally. It's like I'm dealing with an old mumps-survivor. Next thing you know I'm gonna have to submit you into a nursing home."
"You two are so dramatic." My mother tuts, before standing up and sauntering away, I assume to the bathroom. She just leaves whenever she pleases. I've learned not to question it.
Isabella leans in, her skeptical glare intensifying the closer she gets. We're mere inches apart when she says her next words, "Don't think I don't know something is up. I know damn well her promotion gala is tomorrow, and you're acting a little too careless about it for my liking. Either something is up, or you're really fucking stupid for letting her go." She leans back, just as my mother returns, a little too quick her presumed trip bathroom, and that's when I realize my fifty-three-year-old mother is carrying a tray of shots.
