Turning to face him, I want to speak but my mouth won’t open. My words refuse to be voiced.
Marco stares down at me, his face an impassive wall of emotions I don’t understand. We’re both silent as the enormity of this moment settles on us.
Reaching for the bottom drawer, he pulls out a dish towel.
“Marco!” Enzo’s voice echoes in the next room and I stiffen with shame.
“Clean yourself up.” Those are the last words I hear as he walks out of the kitchen without even a word over his shoulder.
I’m in shock. What the fuck is happening? Why is he like this?
Before he has time to go too far, I pull up my yoga pants and run out of the kitchen, screaming at him.
“Why are you acting like this? What is wrong with you?”
Marco freezes, his back to me, as Enzo turns and looks at me with a heartfelt apology. When Marco turns to face me, I feel cracks open where I thought my heart was locked tight.
“This is who I am, River. We have a contract, you signed willingly. Now do your fucking job.”
With my mouth hanging open, my jaw slack from the shock of his words—his attitude, the cold tone of his voice—I stand there long enough to know he’s left the building completely.
In the last two months, I’ve been the sole focus of this man’s attention. Not only has he treated me like his queen, he’s made sure everyone around us treated me as such. Yet, in this moment, I’ve never felt more like a whore. Until now, I made my own decisions, played by my own rules. Rules I put in place to avoid this, avoid these painful feelings.
Rules he’s broken over and over again since the day I met him.
This isn’t who I am. Definitely not the person I aspire to be. As unconventional and scandalous as my job may be, I’ve always taken pride in how I choose my clients. How I help those who come to me.
Until this day, this very moment, I’ve always had respect for myself. Respect for my decisions.
Yet here I am, a couple of months into this job and I don’t recognize myself. I have no idea who this person I’ve become truly is.
How did I end up so broken in such a short amount of time?
Lost in my own self-pity, I walk back to my room, take out my only bag and pack a few of my clothes. Adding my toiletries, I look around the bathroom to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. The nightstand is bare except for a book on the Mancini family sitting proudly on top.
My hand reaches for my left ring finger, carefully pulling the beautiful jewelry off and placing both the engagement ring and the wedding band on top of the book, right next to the name they truly belong to.
Tomorrow, I’ll send the money right back to the sender, but for now I’m going to the only place I feel loved.
I’m going home.