The Bodyguard | [Finished Not Edited | +18]

29

Viviana's Pov:

It's been an hour since he stormed out. An hour since my words broke something between us.
An hour since my life fluttered apart in my lap.

But it's done. Maybe after I've given him some time to calm down, the secret will turn into news... something joyful to share after so much misery and hate.
I toss and turn in the empty cold bed. More than my next breath, I want him back. To feel his fingers on my skin, his mouth on my throat, his deep voice whispering against my hair. I want us back.

Light breaks through the curtains on the bank of windows, and I sigh. Looks like I can't even sleep properly without him here.

It hits me that I should eat something. I don't even know how long it's been since my last meal. When I first woke up, before my confrontation with Valentino, I planned to hunt down some food.

After he left, all I could do was sink back into the bed and pray for sleep to take me away for a while.

It takes me several tries to stand without my legs shaking. Then I have to face the minefield of our bedroom to reach the closet for clothes.

There's glass everywhere, but I get to the closet without a scratch and grab one of his shirts to slip into. It skims my knees, and I stab my feet into a pair of slippers to complete the look for now. No one will be up yet, and even if they are, I doubt anyone will be brave enough to comment on my appearance. Not today. Not after Valentino's rescue and my return.

On my way to the kitchen, I think about the old cook. She'd helped me and betrayed me.

Or she helped me, only to betray me seems more accurate. My father must have bribed her or planted her as a spy.

When I reach the kitchen, it's dark. Figures she wouldn't come back here. If she did, it would be suicide, and she didn't seem the type to roll over and take her punishment when it comes for her.

If Valentino finds out what she did... it surely will.
Oh well, I can fend for myself without any staff. In my father's house, most of them ignored me.

We had to scrounge for our own food and feed ourselves. I open the refrigerator and study its very well-stocked interior.

It passes, and I quickly snatch a bowl of fruit and some shredded chicken.
I set my meal on the countertop in front of a stool and pour a big glass of water from the filtered spout by the sink.

Now, with the water in hand, I realize how dry my mouth is. I stand by the basin, hips pressed against the counter to guzzle it down fast. It drips down my chin and onto my shirt, but I don't stop until it's gone. Then I grab a refill and sit down to eat.

I eat like a raving lunatic, shoving green apples and strawberries into my mouth at a breakneck pace. It's not until the air stirs around me, sending a chill down my spine, that I glance up to find I've got company.

Our Cook doesn't look great.
Not in an I survived a brutal beating way but in an I'm not taking care of myself way. Her usually luscious black hair is dull and limp around her face. Her eyes, still yellow with bruises, are puffy and heavily bagged.

I gasp. She's wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweater. Not that I expect her to bust out the Prada for breakfast, but I've never seen her any less than perfect. At least not since...
I swallow my food and try to give her a smile. "Hi."

She doesn't return it, ignoring me on the way to the refrigerator.
Shoving another bite of chicken in my mouth, I keep my gaze locked on her as if she might explode at any moment. Of the two of us, I'm the far more emotional one.

Yet as someone who's been victimized my entire life, sometimes that explosion can be cathartic. Talking about it always helps.

Our cook heads toward the exit, but I call out to stop her. "Come here. I want to talk to you."