Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 51

Aria's POV

I practically fled from that bedroom, my heart still hammering from Damian's proximity and those ground rules he'd threatened to establish. The way he'd trapped me against the wall, his hands on either side of my head, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that made my knees weak—I needed distance. Lots of it.

My feet carried me down the marble staircase with embarrassing haste, and I nearly collided with Jennifer as she emerged from what I assumed was the direction of the kitchen. Her warm brown eyes immediately filled with concern as she took in my flushed cheeks and obvious agitation.

"Miss Rossi! Careful, dear," she said, reaching out to steady me with gentle hands. "You shouldn't be moving so quickly after your recent ordeal. Dr. Rosetti specifically mentioned you should take things slowly for the next few days."

"I'm fine," I said breathlessly, though we both knew that was a lie. "Just... getting some fresh air."

Jennifer's perceptive gaze studied my face with the kind of maternal scrutiny that saw through every excuse. "Hmm. Well, perhaps some proper nutrition will help settle your nerves. What would you like for dinner tonight? I was thinking perhaps something light but nourishing—maybe that lemon herb chicken you seemed to enjoy yesterday?"

"Whatever's easiest," I replied quickly, desperate to avoid any conversation that might require extended thought. "I mean, whatever Damian's having is fine. I don't want to create extra work."

"Oh, Mr. Cavalieri won't be dining at home this evening," Jennifer said, her tone carefully neutral. "He has business engagements that will keep him out quite late."

I stopped walking entirely, my feet freezing mid-step on the polished marble. He won't be home for dinner?

A wave of relief so intense it was almost dizzying washed over me. No tense meals with him watching my every move with those calculating dark eyes. No sitting across from him while trying to forget the feeling of his breath against my ear as he'd whispered about ground rules and complications.

Please, God, I found myself praying silently, let him get so drunk at whatever business meeting this is that he doesn't come home until tomorrow. Or better yet, let him find some sophisticated socialite to occupy his attention for the entire night.

The thought should have been purely practical—after all, postponing our uncomfortable living arrangement could only be a good thing.

"That's... that's wonderful," I said, probably with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted.

Jennifer's eyebrows rose slightly at my obvious relief. "Well then, I'll prepare something special just for you. You need proper nutrition after your hospital stay, and I've been wanting to try this new recipe for herb-crusted salmon."

Two hours later, I found myself seated at the smaller dining table in what Jennifer called the breakfast room, facing a meal that could have fed three people. The herb-crusted salmon was accompanied by roasted vegetables that looked like they belonged in a gourmet magazine, fresh bread that smelled like heaven, and a soup course I hadn't even requested.

"Jennifer," I protested as she set down yet another small plate—this one containing what appeared to be some kind of delicate custard dessert. "This is too much food. I can't possibly eat all of this."

"Nonsense," she replied firmly, settling into the chair across from me with her own much more reasonably sized portion. "You're far too thin, and your body needs proper fuel to recover. Dr. Rosetti specifically mentioned the importance of nutrition during your... current circumstances."

"Besides," she continued, cutting her salmon with precise movements, "you barely touched your lunch, and yesterday you picked at that beautiful pasta like it had personally offended you. A young woman your age should have a healthy appetite."

"I do have a healthy appetite," I protested weakly. "I'm just... adjusting to everything."

"Adjusting." Jennifer nodded knowingly. "Yes, I imagine this is all quite overwhelming. Moving into a new household, especially one with Mr. Cavalieri's... particular requirements... can be challenging."

She reached across the table to pat my hand with maternal warmth. "But you must eat properly, dear. Your health is the most important thing, and that means regular, nutritious meals. No skipping breakfast, no picking at your lunch, and definitely no surviving on coffee and worry."

"I don't survive on coffee and worry," I said, taking a larger bite of the salmon to prove my point. It was, annoyingly, absolutely delicious.

"Don't you? Because I've noticed you drink at least four cups of coffee before noon, and I've seen the way you stare out the windows like you're planning escape routes." Her voice was gentle but pointed. "Not that I blame you, mind you. Big changes are always difficult."

The accuracy of her observations made me squirm in my chair. "I'm fine, really."

"Of course you are. And you'll continue to be fine as long as you take proper care of yourself." She stood up and moved to a sideboard, returning with a small bottle of vitamins. "These are prenatal vitamins. Dr. Rosetti recommended them given your... situation. One each morning with breakfast."

My cheeks flamed red. Even the vitamins were a reminder of why I was here, what my body was expected to produce. "Jennifer, I—"

"No arguments," she said firmly, though her tone remained kind. "And no more staying in bed until noon. Regular sleep schedules, regular meals, moderate exercise. You're going to be properly taken care of whether you like it or not."

Despite my embarrassment, I found myself smiling for the first time in days. There was something comforting about being fussed over, about having someone care enough to nag me about vitamins and vegetables. It felt almost... maternal.

"You remind me of Sister Mary at the orphanage," I said quietly. "She used to make sure all the children ate their vegetables and got enough sleep."

"Well, someone needs to look after you properly," Jennifer replied with satisfied warmth. "And since you're living under this roof, that someone is me."

After dinner, the reality of my living situation came crashing back. I needed to shower—the hospital smell still clung to my skin despite being discharged days ago—but all my toiletries had been moved to Damian's bathroom.

His bathroom. With his towels and his soap and his presence embedded in every surface.

I found Jennifer in the kitchen, overseeing the cleanup with quiet efficiency. "Um, Jennifer? I was wondering... would it be possible to use one of the guest bathrooms? For tonight, I mean. I know my things were moved to the master suite, but—"

"Oh, I'm afraid that won't work, dear. All your toiletries and personal items have been relocated to Mr. Cavalieri's bathroom as per his instructions. The guest bathrooms are only stocked with basic amenities." She looked up from the dishes with concern. "Is there a problem with the master bath? It has everything you could possibly need."

Yeah, the problem is that it belongs to him.

"No, no problem," I said quickly. "I just... I wasn't sure about the etiquette. Since he's not home..."

"Oh, that's very considerate of you," Jennifer said with an approving smile. "But I'm sure Mr. Cavalieri wouldn't mind you using the facilities. After all, it's your bathroom now too."

Your bathroom now too. The words sent a shiver down my spine. Nothing about that bathroom would ever feel like mine, no matter how many of my belongings were placed there.

But I was tired, my skin felt grimy, and the thought of a hot shower was too appealing to resist. Maybe I could be quick about it—in and out before Damian returned from his business engagement.

I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message: Is it okay if I use the master bathroom? I know you're out, but I wanted to check.

His response came back almost immediately: It's your bathroom too. Use whatever you need.

Simple. Direct. Just practical permission that somehow made my cheeks burn anyway.

The master bathroom was even more intimidating than I remembered. Steam still lingered faintly in the air, and I tried not to think about Damian in that space, water cascading over his skin...

Stop it, I commanded myself firmly.

I ran the bath as hot as I could stand it, adding some of the expensive bath salts I found on the counter. The scent was subtle but luxurious—sandalwood and something else I couldn't identify. Probably cost more per ounce than my old apartment's monthly rent.

The hot water was exactly what I needed. I sank into it with a grateful sigh, letting the heat seep into my bones and wash away the stress of the day. The hospital antiseptic smell finally began to fade, replaced by the expensive bath products that probably cost more than most people's weekly salaries.

My eyes drifted closed as I let myself relax for the first time since waking up in that medical facility. The warm water, the luxurious setting, the blessed absence of Damian's overwhelming presence—it was almost peaceful.

Almost.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, a familiar voice was cutting through my drowsy haze.

"Need me to carry you out?"

My eyes snapped open to find Damian standing in the bathroom doorway, his shirt gone and his dark hair slightly mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it. The sight of his bare chest—all lean muscle and dangerous grace—made my brain short-circuit completely.

I screamed.

Not a dignified gasp of surprise or a ladylike shriek of alarm, but a full-throated, horror-movie-worthy scream that probably woke half the household.

"Oh my God!" I scrambled to cover my eyes with both hands, as if not seeing him would somehow make this less mortifying. Then the realization hit that I was the naked one here, and my hands flew to cover myself instead, which was completely useless given that I was sitting in a bathtub.

"Relax, piccola," Damian said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "It's not like I haven't seen it all before. In fact, I've tasted every inch of what you're trying so desperately to hide."

The casual reminder of our previous encounters sent heat flooding through me that had nothing to do with the bathwater. I grabbed the nearest towel—a ridiculously plush thing that probably cost more than my entire former wardrobe—and flung it at his head.

"Get out!" I sputtered, my voice cracking with embarrassment. "Just... get out!"

"This is my bathroom," he pointed out reasonably, making no move to leave despite the towel draped over his head like some kind of absurd crown. "And you're the one who texted asking permission to use it."

"I didn't ask permission for you to come in while I was using it!"

"You didn't specify that I should stay out of my own bathroom in my own house." He pulled the towel off his head, folding it with irritating precision. "Besides, you looked like you were about to drown again, and I thought we'd had enough of that recently."

"That's not funny!" I snapped, standing up in the bathtub with indignant fury, water cascading off my skin. "And I told you to get out!"

"Careful," he said, his voice carrying a warning note as I stepped toward the edge of the tub. "The marble gets slippery when—"

My foot hit the wet marble floor, and instantly I felt myself losing balance. My arms windmilled frantically as I pitched forward, a startled cry escaping my lips as I prepared to crash face-first into the unforgiving stone.

Strong arms caught me before I could hit the ground, pulling me against a solid chest with reflexes that spoke of years of training. For a moment, I was pressed against Damian's bare torso, our skin touching, his heat seeping into me even as my heart hammered with residual panic.

"I've got you," he murmured against my ear, his voice lower than usual.

Then I felt the towel I'd hastily wrapped around myself slip loose, falling to pool around our feet on the bathroom floor.

We both froze.

I was completely naked in his arms, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between us but the lingering steam from my bath and the sudden tension that crackled through the air like electricity.

"Oh God," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Still want me to leave?" he asked quietly.