ELEANOR
Armando scooped some of the pasta onto his plate, then filled mine as well. The aroma hit me immediately-rich and savory, making my stomach rumble. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in what felt like forever, and this-this looked too good to be real.
He glanced at me. “Take your plate to the dining room and wait for me there,” he ordered. “And don’t even think about taking a bite until I’m seated.”
I blinked, taken aback by his tone, but I nodded. “I wasn’t going to,” I muttered, picking up my plate. As I turned to leave, I paused, thinking I’d at least try to be polite since he did the cooking. “Do you want me to take yours as well?”
He shot me a look that could’ve frozen fire-a look that said more than words could. Did he really think I’d poison him or something?
A wave of irritation rolled through me, but I swallowed it down. Why did I even bother?
“Fine,” I mumbled under my breath and headed for the dining room, trying to ignore the sting of his distrust.
The table was already set, and I sat down with my plate in front of me. The smell of the pasta was driving me crazy. I glanced at the door, hoping Armando would hurry up. The thought that he’d made this himself was still unbelievable. The man could barely show a shred of humanity, let alone cook a meal. I’d never imagined he could do something like this.
My fingers itched to take a bite, but his words echoed in my head. Not until he was seated.
Moments later, he came out of the kitchen, his plate in one hand and two glasses in the other. He sat across from me, placing the glasses on the table. His eyes fixed on me, studying me for what felt like an eternity. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, tension settling over me like a heavy blanket.
“You can take a spoonful now,” he finally said, his voice calm but firm. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands, watching me closely.
I nodded, picking up my fork. As I took the first bite, the taste exploded on my tongue. It was incredible-better than anything I’d had in a long time. I could feel the richness of the sauce, the balance of flavors, and the pasta cooked to perfection. But there was no way I was going to let him know just how good it was.
I swallowed, trying to keep my face neutral.
“It’s… okay,” I said, shrugging as if it wasn’t the best thing I’d eaten in days.
Armando’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just okay?” he asked, his tone laced with doubt.
I nodded, determined to stick to my act. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”
His lips twitched, a small chuckle escaping him. “Not bad?” he repeated, amusement and sacarsm clear in his voice. “You’re really going to sit there and pretend like you’ve had better?”
I met his gaze, feeling my frustration rise. “What’s so funny?” I asked, setting my fork down.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You can keep pretending you know how to cook, but I’m sure my maids would beat you in any dish. In fact, I know I would.”
I felt a spark of defiance flare up inside me. “If you’re such a great cook,” I asked, “why did you buy me in the first place then? You clearly don’t need anyone to cook for you.”
His smile vanished almost instantly, and his eyes darkened. “Don’t ask me that again,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “Eat in peace and be quiet. I need to think.”
I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to push back. He was impossible. Instead, I picked up my fork and took another bite, the flavor just as amazing as the first. But the atmosphere between us was now even more thick with tension.
Armando picked up his glass, taking a slow sip. “You should be thankful,” he said, his voice low, almost a mutter. “Thankful that I’m even letting you eat.”
I stiffened, setting my fork down again. “Thankful?” I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “For what? For treating me like a prisoner?”
He didn’t even flinch. “You could have it a lot worse.”
I wanted to scream, to throw the plate across the room, to tell him exactly what I thought of his so-called generosity. But instead, I sat there, silent, fuming on the inside. I hated how he made me feel so powerless, like every little scrap he threw my way was supposed to be some kind of gift.
We ate in silence after that, the only sound in the room the clink of silverware against the plates. I barely tasted the rest of the meal, even though I knew it was amazing. All I could think about was how much I despised being here, how much I despised him.
And yet, there was something else there, too-something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something I didn’t want to admit.
After a while, Armando stood up from the table, heading toward the stairs without a word. As usual, I wasn’t given much of a clue about what he was thinking.
I shoveled another bite of pasta into my mouth, grateful for the distraction of food.
“Follow me,” he said, his voice calm but firm as always.
I glanced at my plate, then at him. “Can I finish my meal first?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. I wasn’t about to be dragged away mid-bite if I could help it.
Armando paused on the stairs, turning to look at me with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like the food,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “Why the sudden eagerness to finish it?”
I swallowed, trying to maintain my composure. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of making me feel foolish. “I said it was okay,” I replied, “not bad.”
He didn’t seem to care about my explanation. “You can finish later if you want,” he said, his voice colder now. “But right now, you’re coming downstairs.”
With that, he continued down the stairs, leaving me no choice but to follow. I stood up, pushing my plate aside with a sigh and trailed after him. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but whatever it was, I doubted I had much of a say in it.
All I had been trying to do the past few days was comply with whatever he wanted, because I really did not have that energy to keep going back and forth with him.
Ugh, I hated this man.
When we reached the living room, I half-expected him to sit down and start giving me orders like usual, but he stayed standing. I lingered near the entrance, not sure what to expect. Armando wasn’t exactly predictable.
He turned to face me, his expression unreadable. “You know,” he began, “I noticed something earlier at Don Fabio’s party.”
I stared at him, unsure of where he was going with this. “What?”
Armando crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes fixed on me. “You can’t dance. Wasn’t it fucking obvious?!”
I blinked, not expecting that. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, his tone serious. “Back at the party, during the waltz… You barely got through it and would’ve almost embarrassed me.”
I felt my cheeks flush, both with embarrassment and frustration. “You were leading,” I said defensively. “I was just following your lead.”
“Exactly,” he said. “If it weren’t for me, you would’ve tripped over your own feet.” He shook his head slightly, like it was something tragic. “You lack class.”
“Class?” I repeated, incredulous. “What does dancing have to do with class?”
Armando narrowed his eyes at me. “If you’re going to stay in my house, you’ll need to learn how to carry yourself with at least some level of sophistication.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” he replied.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re going to teach me to waltz? Really? Now?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed. It was absurd. The whole idea was ridiculous. Waltzing? That was really his problem? Of all things?
It felt like something out of a bad movie. And yet, here we were.