MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

Chapter 8

Ximena's POV

After Diego left, I stayed in that bathroom for way too long.

The cold water didn't do anything for my face. My cheeks were still burning hot. I sat in that tub until my fingers went wrinkly and the water went lukewarm, just staring at the grey tiles and trying to erase the last ten minutes from my brain.

It wasn't working.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw it again. His eyes going wide. Then dropping down. Then that slow, stupid, male brain-lag before he spun around and almost hit the doorframe. And me, shooting up out of the water like an i***t, trying to cover everything with two hands.

God.

I eventually forced myself out, shivering. I grabbed the biggest towel and dried off without looking in the mirror. I couldn't. I didn't want to see the girl he had just seen. Puffy eyes, mascara smeared, hair sticking up, pillow line still pressed into my cheek. Not the good version. The messy kind.

I needed to feel like me again.

I went to the bedroom and dragged my floral suitcase onto the bed. Chloe packed this. My best friend since we were seven. The only normal person in my whole messed-up family.

She helped me plan everything. The burner phones, the cash, which clothes wouldn't look too rich. She knew I had to run and she didn't even ask why. She just hugged me at the airport in Milan and whispered "text me when you're safe."

But I never told her where I was actually going. Not even Chloe. If my father can't find me, he'll go after her. It's safer if she can honestly say she doesn't know.

I pulled out the white sundress. Simple cotton. It says "I'm fine" even when I'm not. Exactly what I needed.

I sat at the vanity and did my makeup slow. Just concealer, brow gel, gloss. Just enough armor. Every brush stroke I felt a little more human. A little more like Ximena Bianchi. I don't belong to any man and especially not the devil Matteo Moretti.

When I was done I looked okay. Not perfect, but okay.

That's when I saw it in my purse. The new SIM.

My hands shook putting it in. One contact saved. Chloe.

I typed fast.

“Hi. I'm here. It's 7 hours ahead.”

That's it. No city, no country. She'd get it. If it's 7 a.m, here it's 2 a.m, in Italy. She'd see it when she woke up and know I was probably still alive.

I opened my wallet next and counted the cash. A hundred thousand dollars in hundreds. It used to be my shopping budget for a month. But I broke my cards at the airport. I cut up everything with the Bianchi name on it. This is all I have for three months. Maybe more.

For the first time since I landed, I felt actual panic. Cold, heavy panic low in my stomach. What if this runs out? What if I can't get a job? I pushed it down hard. I'd figure it out. I had to.

Then my stomach growled. Loud. I hadn't eaten since those plane pretzels.

I walked out and smelled it immediately. Bacon. Eggs. Real food.

I followed it to the kitchen.

And there he was. Diego. At the stove in just a grey t-shirt, flipping eggs like he'd done it a thousand times. The whole kitchen smelled warm and safe.

Wow, Okay, So he cooks.

He turned when he heard me. His eyes flicked down to the white dress and back up. Then he went back to his pan like I wasn't there.

I just stood there. Because I've literally never cooked anything in my life. Not once. My father wouldn't let us in the kitchen. "Women are for looking pretty and having babies," he said. My mother was worse. "Don't ruin your hands, Ximena. That's all you have. “Women ain’t supposed to have strong palms.

I was about to order room service, but watching him be so calm made me mad. In that competitive way. Like fine, if he can do it the I can do it.

"Are you done?" I asked.

"Almost," he said.

"Can you hurry up? I own fifty percent of this kitchen, you know."

He didn't answer. He just slid his perfect eggs onto a plate, walked to the couch, kicked his feet up, turned the TV on to some loud action movie, and started eating. Slowly. Like he had all day.

Perfect. Fine.

I started pulling stuff out of the freezer. The hotel had everything. Ground beef, mozzarella, lasagna noodles. Okay. We're doing this.

But I could feel it. Every thirty seconds his eyes flicked up from his plate to me. Not staring, just... watching.

I struggled with the can opener for a full minute and heard a little snort from the couch. I didn't look up.

When the tomato can finally opened, it slipped and splashed right down the front of my clean white dress. Bright red.

"Ugh!"

I heard him cough to cover a laugh.

"What?" I snapped.

He just raised an eyebrow, took another slow bite of bacon. "Nothing, princess. Just enjoying the show."

My blood boiled. He was sitting there eating like it was dinner theater and I was the entertainment.

I hacked at an onion so bad my eyes streamed. “f**k” I shouted as I tried to clean it. After 5 minutes of washing I have finally cleaned it, then I continued cooking.

I just threw the chunks in the pot. Then I went to the spice rack and just started shaking stuff in. Oregano? Sure. Basil? Why not.

By the time I was grating cheese everywhere, he was leaning back with empty plate and one arm over the couch, just watching me like I was a bad cooking channel.

It made me want to throw the grater at his big ugly head.

He finally stood up, stretched, picked up his plate. "Good luck," he said, with that stupid smirk still there, and walked past right me.

A second later I heard the bathroom door click and the shower turn on loud.

Thank god.

I grabbed the lumpy dish and shoved it in the oven. I set the temperature, slammed the door, and leaned against the counter feeling very accomplished. Very smug.

I’m cooking.