No Strings Attached

Chapter Twenty-Three

I've been staring at a Picasso painting for hours. At least, I think it's been hours.

I'm not sure how many. I'm completely trapped in this odd, scarily calm trance, unable to move my mouth, my legs. My ass is sore against the hard floors from sitting in one place for so long, but I can't bring myself to move.

I hug my knees tighter, feeling safe on the ground against the side of the bed, the side not facing the door. I've watched the room darken over the hours. Now I can barely see the painting. It's pitch black in here, the moon being the only source of light. Well, that, and the light still on in the hallway, creeping in beneath the door.

I've seen Giovanni's feet under the light of the doorway at least three times, but he never knocks. In truth, I don't want him to. I just want to sit here. I stopped feeling my stomach hours ago.

I don't know why I'm here. Why did I stay?

It's been so long since I've even heard someone speak of my father, my mother... or what happened to her. I force myself not to think of it every single time I open my eyes. Every morning, I force myself not to remember the beatings.

To hear that someone so clearly knows pieces of my life, a part of my life I want to remain hidden, and is willing to use them against me, has terrified me. Lola is completely right. This information gets out, and I'll be struggling to retain my clients. I mean, who wants a publicist with a past like mine? With an ex-husband stalking her? A father in jail?

Norman knows the most out of anyone in my life. He knew my mother from his younger years. He knows how she died. He knows that my father was a horrible man but has no clue how horrible. I've never told him anything, even when he probed.

I always hid my past from Dixon. I loved him, but I didn't allow him to see that part of me. When he asked of my family, I'd told him they were dead, that I hadn't been close to them. He was okay with not knowing, as was I.

But Giovanni isn't like Dixon. He doesn't let me bullshit him. He pushes, and he pushes, infuriatingly, when he knows I don't want to talk. It's that reason that I'm probably still hiding out in here.

Because I don't want to let him in.

The room finally brightens, bathing the wall in warm light. I see Giovanni's shapely shadow as he walks into the room, calculatingly slow. I don't look away from the window, even seeing him in my peripherals.

"It's been ten hours, Scarlett."

Even that number surprises me. Not because I can't believe I've been sitting here for ten hours, but that he's stayed away that long.

"You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"I find that hard to believe. You skipped lunch and dinner."

"I'm not hungry," I repeat dully. He sighs and sits down beside me on the floor. I gear myself up for his questions, but he stays quiet.

For a long time, we just sit beside each other in a dark room. I feel the tension of his questions, and after a while, I know we cannot remain silent anymore.

"I'm sure you have questions."

"I'm sure you don't want to answer them."

I look down at my hands. "No, I don't, but I feel like I have to."

"You don't." My eyes flicker to his. He stares at me calmly. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"And you'll be satisfied with that? Even if I never tell you?"