Vita Mia: My life
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She has never wanted to take any part in the mafia world that her abusive and manipulative parents control. All she wants is to be free of them. All she wants is to be free of her trauma th...
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"He would burn the world around him, but never let a flame touch her."
Arabella Karve A dinner with the DuPont family is about as good as being skinned alive— while exchanging pleasantries. Between Diana saying anything she can in order to try and hurt me so that she can feed the endless pit of insecurity sitting under all the fake tan. And Mr. and Mrs. DuPont only speaking with me about taking over the business and finally being appointed to an arranged marriage— I will never survive tonight.
I was informed this morning—after Eros finally rolled off of me and I was able to move again—that we'll be having a black-tie dinner tonight at our manor with the Duponts, and a few other guests. Apparently, some foreign deal in Germany went assiduously, and my parents want to host a dinner in thanks to the DuPonts for helping sponsor the whole transaction.
And as the cherry on top, I heard that Dimitri Sokolov is one of the guests that will be attending tonight. No, I don't have anything against Dimitri. He is a very—charming person, but ever since that night at the club—
Sometimes when I'm alone I can still feel his forced touch on my body.
I know it was my fault just as much as his. I shouldn't have lied and drank so much. I shouldn't have gone into that room alone, then not fought against him harder. Yet whenever I am around him now, I feel— gross.
I shouldn't. Dimitri apologized and felt sincerely bad. But it was my first kiss, and I just feel like it was taken from me. I wish I could have saved it for someone— else.
Someone like Eros. My Eros.
God, I'm fucked. I am in love with someone like Eros Vandare. Someone who could never love me.
I take a deep breath as I look away from my book— needing a break— and glance out the window beside me.
Flowers, chirping birds, re-
"What the fuck?" I mumble under my breath while slowly shutting my book and placing it down beside me, half believing I am hallucinating. I sit up in confusion, staring out the bay window that faces the blooming garden, where the sun is casting a golden glow.
Flourishing greenery thrives throughout the garden, Ivy climbing up the marble pillars, and flowers blooming along the simple pathway. Everything is beautiful, and in place, except for the red rose— the one red rose—placed on the stone bench under the arbor.
We don't grow red roses in the garden. We don't have red roses in the house. Because everytime I see them all I can see is—
What kind of sick joke is someone playing?
Anger fogs my mind as I suddenly stand up from my seat and storm down the hallway in rage at the thought of someone putting a red rose on Tara's bench.
