Loving Henry

28 March, Monday

The Monday after my lazy weekend arrived and with it, my excitement. Henry was coming back tomorrow and if I had anything to do with it; we would be spending the entire day snogging each other into a coma. The bucket of ice water on my mood, however, was the event that had to take place before Henry gets here.

My father’s company was having a big fancy gala tonight and I was required to attend (more like forced, but details, details…).

I spent the majority of my afternoon curling my hair and doing it into a beautiful up do (I sincerely hoped the curls would last until the next day, so that I could look pretty for Henry) and trying not to throw up. I absolutely abhorred these types of gatherings.

It was just an excuse for a bunch of twofaced business men and politicians to flaunt their money and power. I was extremely awkward socially (on the inside, of course, my father would kill me if I wasn‘t perfect at everything) and I never knew what to say to these people. I mostly let them do all the talking and kept away from my life. I liked hoodwinking them into just talking about anything and everything, while I pretended to listen, but I was actually looking for someone else to join our conversation so that I could pawn them off on each other. All of this was done discreetly. I might not like talking to people and engaging in idle chit chat, but I was good at it.

I deeply regretted that I couldn’t force Henry to go with me, so that I could at least have some decent company. He also wasn’t going to see how gorgeous I looked in my green Zuhair Murad dress. Not to mention my shoes. But I guess that’s a bit of a moot point since no straight man in his right mind could possibly appreciate shoes as the lifeline that they were. Which was only fair, since I had no intention or desire to understand, watch or play any type of sport whatsoever.

~**~

Instead of coming upstairs and getting me from my suite (like any decent man would), my father sent me a text message to “get my ass downstairs and into the car.” What. A. Bastard. I grabbed my clutch and a coat and made my way to the lift.

In the lobby, I asked a woman to take a picture of me in my dress with my phone, which I then sent to Henry.

He wouldn’t get it until they had landed in Egypt in a few hours and he had a chance to switch on his phone, but it was the thought that counted.

I got into the waiting limo to find my father talking on his phone. He didn’t even spare me a glance and so I mentally gave him the finger.

To make the evening even worse, I knew my father was going to force me into talking to some idiot guy all evening. My father had been trying to arrange my marriage to some billionaire’s heir since I turned eighteen. I got the deciding choice, however, since my father knew that he couldn’t technically force me into a marriage, although he very much wanted to. I’d never been so happy in my life that we weren’t living in the middle ages anymore, even if my father’s mindset was. I honestly didn’t think that there was a bigger bastard this side of the equator.

The car pulled up to the red carpet and footmen opened my door. My father ended his call and walked around to my side of the car to take my arm and pretend like I was the most beautiful and valuable possession that he owned. I smiled for the flashing cameras and pretended like there was no where on earth I’d rather be.

When we got inside, we were greeted by Mr. and Mrs. This and introduced to minister That and his terrible wife, Mrs. That. The faces started blurring together and I barely got a word in edgewise, since my father was acting like I’d lost my voice and so he had to do all the talking for me. Egotistical bastard.

I was saved (if you can call it that, since it was more like imprisoned in a different cell) when tonight’s eligible bachelor asked me to dance. I was going to decline until I saw the murderous glint in my father’s eyes and so I was whisked away to dance a waltz.

George Raspanti was the son of an Italian billionaire who made his fortune in oil. He was handsome and debonair, so it was easy to like him. Then he opened his mouth and all his arrogance and self-centeredness came out like a tsunami and threatened to drown you.

He thought he could get away with murder and he probably could since his father just had to throw a bag of money at someone to get him off scot-free.

It’s a shame that he’s such a good dancer. Such a skill would have been better off with someone who wasn’t such a complete asshole.

It figures that my father would want me to marry someone like him. He probably knew that George would be able to rein me in and suppress my fire.

Why couldn’t all men be like Henry…?

~**~

“So, cara mia, what do you say?” George asked me after our dance.

“What do I say to what?”

“Sposarmi? Marry me?”

“Oh, well sure. With a romantic notion like that, how could I possibly say no?” My voice was so heavy with sarcasm that even George picked up on it.

“Dolce mia, don’t you like me? Am I not handsome or rich enough for you?”

I rolled my eyes and barely managed not to snort.

“George, we barely know each other…”

“Non capisco. What does that matter? Our father’s want us to marry. We will have many belle babies.”

I take it there are going to be a few illegitimate babies from his side. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word monogamy, no matter what language.

~**~

I breathed a sigh of relief later that night, when I finally got home and into bed. I want to put a hand grenade down my father’s trousers for putting me through the night’s terrors. I’d just barely managed to escape walking down the aisle with that arrogant Italian.