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956 Words
The warm golden light of sunset casted over the terracotta rooftop of the luxurious Italian rooftop. Bianca stared at the picturesque sight of Tuscany, what she once called home. She wandered deeply if she was about to leave everything she knew as home for the brother of the man she had come to fall so desperately in love with. She would no longer be able to drink expensive fine wines and think about kissing him and inhaling his sweet, intoxicating arome- he smelt of earthy and woody notes of cedarwood.
How she wanted to run.
But she could not disobey her father.
The sprawling villa was an ecstatic view of lushness, sweet smelling flowers of calla lilies and orchids. She ran her fingers over the green and red floras and their delicate petals and allowed their terrible thorns pierce her massaged and manicured hands. She thought herself a flower, born to please while she suffered deeply inside - like a thorn-tormented slave. Papa had always listened to her, let her run his businesses and ride horses and learn what she wanted to learn. But for the first time in her life, her pleas were futile.
She sighed.
The last one year of her life had been a bitter sweet escapade. She had been courting the son of one of her father's wealthy tycoon friends. It was an alliance wedding that would benefit both parents and of course her husband to be; but no one seemed to care about what she thought. Weeks before he arrived, she had heard the jobless maids gloat and gossip about him within the kitchen walls with a magazine.
"... handsome...sooo handsome...he's tall...he has got quite a fortune...I'd kill to be a mistress" she heard the high pitched whispers of the idle maids in Italian.
She had had high expectations of him, so many expectations that she looked out for during their first meeting.
So, when her governess had approached her with the question, during one of their English lessons, her governess was flabbergasted.
"I hate him!" she had spat out so abruptly.
"Hate is a strong word my lady, quite..." she began but Bianca cut her short.
"Unlady like, I suppose but I'm being honest. Ē un stronzo!" she yelled in vulgar Italian.
Williams Xavier, her 'dearest' fiance was self-centered, uncouth, excessively materialistic, unpleasant, proud and charmingly condensing. He disgusted her so much that she spent most of their dates at the restroom or back in her bedroom where she would pace to and fro complaining about how much she wished to pin his lips with the prongs of the forks on the table or spit the tongue-searing tea at his annoying face. And when she finally accepted to go riding with him and she rode her own horse that surprisingly surpassed his, she almost kicked him where she knew it would hurt the most because he had dared to say she needed taming; that she was too fast, too rough for a prim and proper princess. She was livid.
"He's misogynistic!" She had read 'misogynistic' in one of her many English novels and thought he suited the grammar adequately. She was at the halls, a few rooms away from the art lounge.
"Lo detesto! Ma come si permette? Tutto impettito e corretto?" she yelled in Italian -( I hate him! I mean how dare he? Prim and proper?)
"Davvero?"- (Is that so? ) An unfamiliar, low pitched husky voice came. She whirled around. At first, fear gripped her delicate body, she felt faint. Then she noticed, the sharp-edge of his jawline, that Roman nose, thick Raven black hair and his dominating, towering tallness, all perfecting his irrevocable handsomeness. The ambience changed and it seemed like her long venus-red nails could cut the tension in the air. He stood, leaning on the wall, legs crossed, Brandy in his left grip as he stared at her- blankly; not the vain, mind-blown expression she was used to. His beautiful eyes; two sweet blue pools that promised joy, did not wander around her seductive and sexy body, but stayed fixed at her eyes, unmoved by her beauty.
How could a man check so many boxes. Boxes that none of her Italian boyfriends, Spanish flings, English lovers nor even that self-important, insolent man probably still waiting for her ticked.
"Who...are you?"She switched to English. She waved her maids away and squared her shoulders. Bianca Bianchi did not trip over men.
"Your future brother in-law" he stated.
" You speak Italian?"she asked, surprised.
"I'm in Italy, am I not?" That rich resonant tone, smooth as porcelain yet confident with a magnetic presence, refined and sophisticated with a hint of huskiness. Just captivating.
They talked for hours, discussing topics she wished to talk about- politics, wars, press, business and travel. He seemed to have forgotten that she was a woman, the priceless Italian princess his brother was supposed to marry. They had literally everything in common, most especially, they could not stand the same people - Williams. She loved him; that handsome and detailed man, who did not care for alliance marriages and clingy, adoring women.
"He's not Italian my lady, that's probably why you find him... different" she said trying to pacify her.
"Miss Margaret I've met a great deal of men, Spanish, Indian and even English, that man is deserving of what I've named him"
"Then how do you hope to live with him?"
She had paused. How did she plan to live with him? Or rather without him?
Him. Cameron.
She needed a miracle, so when a blazing streak sliced across the velvety sky, leaving behind a glittering trail, she made a wish.
I want him, I want him so bad, whatever it costs.
- Writer
