002. The Plea Deal.
1459 Words
Anastasia’s POV:
“Absolutely not,” Tristan says. “Nuh-uh. You don't get to blow us off and return calling in favours this big.”
“But—”
“Don’t you think it's a little too fast?” he cuts in. “Cause what I remember was you—quote and unquote—'Needing to take a break from everything work-related to focus on your family,' thereby kissing your chance at going full paralegal at Z.T LLP goodbye.”
I go silent. Not out of anger, but because he isn't lying about a single thing.
I had given up so much of my life for Dante, for our marriage, surrendering myself to his every whim.
Maybe because I thought there was still a trace of the dark-haired boy I'd fallen for all those years ago in him. Or perhaps it was because I stupidly chose to believe in the hoax of a happy-ever-after.
What a joke.
Tristan realizes he'd hit a nerve. “I'm sorry, that came out wrong,” he says. “I shouldn't have attacked you like that. Especially not after what you've just told me.”
“You are right though,” I quip. “That was wrong of me.”
I shake my head, silently wiping a stray tear. “I shouldn't have called.”
“No, you shouldn't apologize. I’m the douchebag here.” Tristan decides.
“Matter-of-fact, what do you need?”
***
The constant buzzing of my phone on the night stand eventually grows annoying enough to force me awake this morning.
I bring a hand down on the infuriating device. This had better be important, or else..
Prying a tired eye open, I press the screen to my ear. “Yes?”
It's a voice message from Dante, no less.
That sparks my interest immediately. I scramble awake, ignoring the rays of sunlight catching lines of my face, and sit up, increasing the volume.
His voice booms through the speaker, filling the space. “Anna, what's the meaning of this? A freaking divorce order?!” he marvels.
Heart in my throat, I wait, and there it comes. The plea deal.
“Look, whatever I said or did last night, I'm sorry, okay? Just come home, we can talk about it.”
I click the next one. “I promise baby, we can fix this, we can fix us. Just.. Don't do this.”
And the following. His tone is angrier now.
“Anna, f**k—Anastasia pick up your damn phone!”
The corner of my lips twitches with excitement but I force myself to stay calm as I type in a single response.
‘We’ll meet in court, Dante.’
‘Like hell we will.’ He instantly chats back.
His call profile darkens my phone the very next second, but I promptly turn off my device, forcing it to voicemail.
A knock comes on the door, startling me.
“Who's there?” I ask.
“Buongiorno, Madame Keys. I am Anton, your concierge, here to serve you,” a masculine voice says from the other end.
“Serve me?” I repeat, standing up. “I don't recall requesting a concierge.”
I head to the door, pulling it partly open with a subtle tilt of my head. In the doorway is a buffed up man in a crisp black suit. He must be Anton.
“Madame.” He nods in greeting and claps twice, stepping aside for a rack of clothes to come barreling through.
I widen the door in a panic, moving at the last minute as an organized makeover crew files into my room, filling my previously quiet suite with color as they work quickly, setting up designer dresses and make-up equipment.
“Okay, what's happening right now?”
“My manager said to bring you the best suits I could find,” Anton answers.
“Your manager?” I squawk. “But I didn't make any request.”
He chuckles. “Oh no, signora,” he says. “It's already been paid for.”
“By who?”
Anton raises a finger and reaches into his suit jacket, presenting a note card. “For you.”
I hesitantly collect it, heart pounding. “Thank you, Anton.”
He nods again and leaves.
My gaze falls on the glossy material and I flip it open before I can overthink it, my heart stilling at the words engraved in silver script:
‘To go to war Commandress, you should at least look battle-ready, no?’
My eyes linger on the text for just a second, letting the rage burn and fester within me before crumpling it up.
Fucking Dante.
He’s certainly come a long way from begging, I'll give him that.
‘Probably ‘cause he never meant it.’ my subconscious jibes.
I dump the note in the bin and grab my phone on the way to the bathroom, making sure to send Tristan a note of thanks.
Since Dante's paying, might as well give him a damn good show. I return a few minutes later, letting the glam squad from hell get started on my looks.
If he wants to rail me out, fine. I’ll step onto the chessboard. But when I play?
I’ll play to win.
My phone vibrates with Tristan's response.
‘Rooting for you, Stasi. Make him pay.’
***
The court hallway is a graveyard pulsing with more tension than the last four years of my marriage.
I grip my purse tighter, my heart on my Ch*nel sleeve as I walk through the halls, wondering if this is the right step to take.
Is the threat of a child born out of an illicit affair with my mother really worth throwing away a journey of seven years?
As much as I want to say no, I can't.
The second I round the corner, Dante's all up in my face, raging.
“Where the hell have you been?!”
No sincere apology, no more attempts to “fix” things. Not even a common appraisal of my looks. What's worse, I don't know how to address him at this point. Husband? Stepfather?
“You had your side fling bring me to court, yet you're the one coming late.” He seethes. “Ora sei in ripresa? (You're on a rebound now?) Or was your boy toy just that good in the sack?”
Is he for real?
“Clever remark coming from a man who was inches deep in my mother last night,” I scoff, feigning confusion. “Or was it his own son?”
Dante’s lower lid twitches, and his hand snaps up. I flinch, humiliation burning through me at the familiar jolt of fear.
Catching himself, Dante curses. “Meet me inside, you've wasted enough of my time as it is.”
The doors slam shut behind him, and that's when I notice her, anxiously wringing her hands like a guilty child.
My mother.
I try to ignore her, but she moves faster. “My darling I—”
“Don't, call me that,” I grind out. “You lost that right ages ago.”
Despite the havoc she's wrecked on my life, she looks well. Her previously dark hair has been straightened and dyed to match her brown eyes. Her cheekbones are higher than ever. And is that…make up I see?
Wow. Just wow.
“I know I deserve your venom, but please, don't throw away the good thing you have here,” she says. “Dante’s a good man.”
I can't help it, I laugh. How can she not see the several shades of irony in that statement?
“Good thing?” I wheeze. “Good man?!”
She thankfully stays quiet.
“You know what, I can't do this with you today.”
“Gabriella please!”
“It's Anastasia to you, Mom!” I blurt. “I changed my name in order to get rid of your stain, which you would know if you weren't busy f*****g the first d**k with a pul—”
Her palm connects with my cheek, cutting me off as I stare at her in shock.
She retracts her hand immediately, equally stunned. “I-I'm sorry sweetie, I didn't mean..”
“Save it,” I snap, nursing the bruising sting.
Dante is standing on the other side of the pier when I enter the courtroom, his hands gripping the edge of the seat in front of him.
Our presiding judge, an older, balding man in staple black and white watches me walk down the rows to the opposite end.
“Good of you to finally join us, Mrs. Keys,” he says.
“My apologies for the delay, your honor.”
- Writer
