“Stop fidgeting.”
I frown over at Julian as I finish straightening my black pencil skirt. “It’s crooked. I can’t go into your mother’s house with a crooked skirt.”
“Well, it’s fixed now, and you’re distracting me,” he bites.
“What crawled up your ass?” I scrunch my nose. “You’re extra bitchy tonight.”
His eyes narrow and his lips purse but he ignores me, walking up the sidewalk to a large home that backs up to a lake, with a brick exterior and stone archways. There’s a chandelier in the high window above the front door, and purple plants are growing in the garden outside the bay window to the left.
“This is beautiful,” I say, tripping over my feet as I try to keep up with him. “Does your mom live here alone?”
He doesn’t answer, stopping when we reach the door.
Honestly, I’m kind of nervous about the entire situation, not sure what to expect from the woman who raised a man like Julian Faraci and not sure how I’m supposed to act. He’s so touchy about his past, and I know that this is another opportunity for me to peer into the personal life of my husband, to see who he is and if there are any weak spots I can dig into and rip apart.
The burner phone Riya gave me is sitting underneath a pile of my clothes in my dresser drawer back at the house, a string of text messages with Randy Gazim waiting for me to get back to them and keep the conversation going.
He says he’ll help me, that once I inherit Sultans, he’ll draft up an annulment, help me go public against Julian and find both Aidan and myself protection so that we can be safe. He said that doing it now would be better, but I want to make sure my father doesn’t know the lengths that his right-hand man would go to in order to betray him. He should be at peace when he passes, not worried about things that can be handled after he’s gone.
It’s a morbid thought, waiting for my father to die, one that has guilt and sadness commingling in my chest and compressing my lungs until they feel beaten and worn, but there’s nothing else we can do except wait. I have to come to terms with it in order to make sure his legacy is protected in the end.
Julian’s hand briefly touches my back and then retreats, and that brings me back into the moment.
I’ve noticed that Julian generally likes me to show affection in public or around people, including my father, who we’re trying to convince that we’re the real deal, but I don’t know if that extends to his own mother. You’d think he’d let me in on what I’m supposed to do, but a large part of pretending to be in love with Julian is figuring out what he wants like I’m a mind reader. He just expects me to know. Another dickish trait of his.
Despite the nerves, though, part of me is excited to see him interact with someone he loves—although the jury’s still out on whether he’s even capable of the emotion.
When we reach the door, he doesn’t knock; he just opens the matte- black handle and walks inside.
“Ma,” he hollers.
His tone catches me off guard, and I hold back a laugh at how normal he sounds as I follow behind him through the large entryway with a staircase to the left and past the open dining room that already has food set in the middle of the table. The smell of oregano and something hearty hits my nostrils, making my stomach rumble in appreciation. I haven’t eaten since brunch this morning, and the nerves of having to be around Julian and his mother at the same time have sent me into a bit of a tailspin, so I’m starved, and the food smells delicious.
We walk by a living room with a floor- to-ceiling stone fireplace, flames crackling, and then head to the right of the cream- colored couches and into the open kitchen.
A woman stands between the small island and a gas stove, her black hair with silver streaks pulled into a low bun on her head.
Right before she turns around, Julian reaches behind him and grabs my hand. Tightly.
My brows shoot up as I look at him, confused by how out of sorts he seems, an anxious energy radiating off him that normally doesn’t exist. But when his mother faces us, I clear the expression, adopting a large smile and leaning in slightly to Julian’s touch. Both because I’m trying to be convincing and because his mother immediately puts me on edge. Her face is stern, and her eyes are cold as ice. They zone in on our linked hands immediately.
“Ciao, Ma.”
“Vita mia, come give your mother a kiss.”
Her voice is strong and smooth like honey, and she’s clearly not from Badour with the way she drops her r’s and elongates her a’s. I realize then that I have no idea if Julian is originally from here, and anxiety squeezes my insides tight, worried she’ll ask me questions I don’t know how to answer. Questions that any other married couple should know.
Whatever. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter anyway, so if we look silly, then I’m blaming him, and he can deal with the repercussions.
There’s a wooden spoon in his mother’s left hand as she walks over to us, reaching up to wrap Julian in a hug. As she does, her left arm drops harshly, forcing my hand away from his.
My heart jumps and my fingers sting from the action, but I shake it off, telling myself that surely, she didn’t do it on purpose.
She backs away from him, holding onto his biceps before reaching up to pat him on the face, then looks over to me. “And who is this?”
Julian shakes her off, grabbing me around the waist and dragging me into his side. “This is Yasmin.”
“Yasmin.” She lifts her chin so she’s staring down her nose at me. “I didn’t know my son would be bringing strangers into my home.”
“Ma,” Julian sighs.
“What?” she asks, her gaze swinging back to him. “You bring a girl here without warning me and I’m not allowed to ask any questions?” She turns toward me, primping the side of her already perfect bun. “Honestly, you’d think I’m chopped liver with the way he treats me. Barely calls, never tells me what he’s doing with his life, and now here you are. A random girl I’ve never met.” Her lip curls. “Maybe you’re the reason he’s been so distant.”
I stare at her with wide eyes, extremely uncomfortable and insulted but also a little amused. She’s talking to Julian like he’s a kid, not like the formidable businessman he is. It honestly fascinates me a little, and I can’t help the tiny smirk that lines my mouth when I turn to look at Julian, seeing him in a different light for the first time. It’s hard to be intimidated by him when he’s in this element.
“Is this new?” she asks, pointing her finger to me and then him.
“Not particularly,” I reply after Julian doesn’t say a word.
“And you never let me meet her?” she complains. “Typical.”
“You’re meeting her now,” he says dryly.
“And for what? What if I died and you never even let me meet the girl you’re seeing? You’d have to live with that for the rest of your life. Any day now, I could go, you know that? I don’t have much time left. I’ve told you what the doctors say. Do you want that on your conscience?”
I inhale a harsh breath at her words, pain slicing through the hidden wounds caused by my father’s illness.
“I’m— ” I start, not sure what I’m going to say but knowing I have to say something so I don’t break down into tears.
“She’s your daughter- in- law, Ma. Congratulations,” he throws out. “And you’re not dead yet, so it looks like I made it in time.”
Anger filters through me at how callously he brushes off her concern. If she’s really ill, then I can’t believe he’s treating her this way. He should be over here, spending as much time with her as he can. At least she wants to see him.
Unlike my father, who’s pushing me further away every day.
When she stares at me this time, I meet her gaze head- on. I don’t know why, but this feels important. Like I’m aching for her approval and hoping she doesn’t think I’m not enough.
Although, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter one way or the other. This marriage is going to end soon anyway, and it will be nothing more than a regretful memory, like a bad taste in my mouth that I wash away with water.
“Well.” She smacks her hands on her thighs. “Dinner’s ready. Probably cold by now with how long you took to get here.” And she turns around and walks away. Just like that.
I look at Julian, trying to gauge whether her completely ignoring the fact that we got married is a normal thing or if it’s something we should be worried about, but his face is a shield, not betraying a single emotion.
We follow her into the dining room at the front of the house.
“You can sit here, Yasmin. Next to me, so I can get to know my new daughter.” His mother points to a chair on the opposite side of where I’m assuming she expects Julian to sit, but Julian stops me before I can move, pulling out the chair next to him and helping me settle before pushing me in.
He sits down next to me and grabs my hand beneath the tablecloth, resting it on his knee, which is tapping out a nervous rhythm.
I glance down at our interlocked fingers and then up to his face, wondering if he even realizes what he’s doing. It’s not like his mom can see him holding my hand, so I don’t really get the purpose. But I leave it because either way, he seems nervous, and I don’t want to do anything to set him off.
His mother flicks her wrist at the buffet of food on the table. “Well, come on. Don’t just stare at it.”
Julian releases my hand then, placing it on his thigh before grabbing my plate, dishing up perfect portions of everything before setting it back down in front of me.
I stare at him, gobsmacked, before looking down at the food and then back up at him.
“What’s wrong? Not enough? Too much?” he asks, slipping his hand back under mine.
“N- no,” I stutter. “That’s perfect.” I pick up my fork and stab the leafy greens but pause before I take a bite. “Thank you.”
Honestly, I don’t know if anyone outside serving staff has ever plated food for me before, and it’s a nice gesture, one that makes me feel cared for in a different way than I ever have been. Something foreign and warm fills up my chest, and I twist my fingers, sliding them between his and squeezing.
Funny how such a simple thing can cause such a cataclysmic reaction.
“Look at you two,” his mother says, taking a large sip of her red wine. “So in love. Just like me and your papà were.” She nods toward Julian. “Of course, he’d be less than impressed that you were starting a meal without saying grace.”
His leg stops jittering. “Ma, stop it.”
“What? I’m not allowed to talk about my husband now?” She tilts her glass toward me. “I wish you all the happiness I had.”
Julian slams his fist down on the table, rattling the china and making my stomach drop. “That’s enough.”
I clear my throat, my heart pounding so hard against my chest that I’m afraid you can hear it across the room, and I pick up the glass of wine in front of me and take a large sip.
So much for never drinking again.
The bitter notes of the liquid make me cringe, but I swallow it down and gulp again, needing something to do so that I don’t gawk at the scene happening in front of my eyes.
His mother— whose name I still don’t know— flings her back against the chair at Julian’s outburst, bringing a hand to her chest. “Well, you can’t say you don’t have his temper.”
Julian laughs, but it’s hollow. My eyes fling between them, my hands growing clammy from how awkward I feel.
“Ma, you really don’t want to test me right now. Okay? Can we just have a meal? Why is it always so hard to have a normal day with you?”
I expect her to give in. Julian’s voice has dropped to that deep, smooth, and dangerous timbre, like a knife sharp enough to cut through bone.
“Who do you think you are, speaking to your mother that way?” she hisses.
Now my nerves ramp up for her sake. Does she not know who her son is? What he’s capable of?
“You walk in here like a hotshot, dancing around in your Armani suits and toting your pretty new wife with a giant ring, and what do I get, huh? A smart mouth from a boy who used to be too scared of me to speak.”
His jaw twitches, and he lowers his head, his nostrils flaring as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge between his nose. He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and he’s squeezing so hard my fingers are starting to go numb, but I don’t try to move.
“Mrs. Faraci, with all due respect,” I start, trying to defuse the situation. “Your son is— ”
“You know, if he were here— your father— he wouldn’t stand for it. Whoop some sense into you and remind you who made you what you are.” Her words soar across the air like finely aimed arrows, and I can tell the moment they hit their mark.
Julian tightens his fingers on mine for a second and then releases me completely, the sound of his chair scraping against the ground as it echoes off the high ceilings and beige walls.
He leans over the table, his fists pressing on the top until his knuckles turn white. “No, Mamma. He’d whoop you.”
My stomach is tangled in knots as I watch them, my fingers twisting together in my lap.
He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me forcefully up from the table. “We’re leaving.”
“Oh, okay, I…” I trail off as I regain my balance. He drags me away and I glance back once, not knowing if I should say goodbye or thank her for the meal or cuss her out for nagging her son instead of enjoying their time together. But I give her a pass, because if she’s sick, then I’m sure she’s confused, just like my baba, not wanting to lose the ones she loves yet not knowing how to approach them.
It’s only a few seconds and then it’s too late to say anything at all. Julian dragged me all the way out to the car, practically throwing me in the passenger seat and then driving like a bat out of hell off her property.
I sit ramrod straight, not even daring to breathe too loud.
Anger permeates the car, buzzing like a hive of wasps.
Eventually, I open my mouth, then close it again, repeating the motion two more times before I give up. I have no clue what to say.
“Are you okay?” I finally muster.
He doesn’t respond, jerking the wheel, my body jostling from the sharp left turn.
“You know,” I continue, trying to get some type of reaction out of him, “your mom seems like a peach. It’s no wonder you talk about her so much.”
His mouth twitches.
I reach out before I can stop myself, my finger poking into the side of his face. “Look at that. Your face isn’t stuck after all.”
He snaps his head to the side, chomping his teeth like he’s trying to bite my hand, and I squeal, pulling it back and slamming it to my chest.
I’m not sure why this sudden need is here, aching to make him feel better. Maybe it’s because I didn’t like the look in his eyes or the obvious strain that he and his mother have. Maybe it’s because I could tell there are things from his childhood that I could never imagine for myself. Or maybe it’s just because in this moment, I don’t hate my husband as much as I should. Whatever it is, I grab on to it with both hands, hoping that it doesn’t slip through my grasp.
“You’re an animal.” I laugh.
“Oh, gattina.” He sighs, smiling broadly now. “You have no idea.”
