My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(26)

“There she is.” A relieved smile spread across Vernon’s face. I had a feeling he wouldn’t be so happy if he had a direct line to my thoughts. “This rose can live for six months without an ounce of sunshine or warmth. Maybe even more. The perfect amount of time to fall in love.”

My excitement blew out of me, slumping my shoulders and clouding my face. “No one is falling in love in this place.”

“Just because you don’t plan on it doesn’t mean it won’t happen.” Vernon bowed his head. “Take my rose as an example. It can survive the roughest conditions and still flourish. Maybe you can, too.”

I held my tongue back.

No point in lashing out at the poor man.

Vernon stepped back without turning away. “Well, if Mr. Costa gives you trouble, you know where to find me. Take care of that rose for me, will you?”

When he left, I kicked the blanket off and snatched the rose, willing to snap it in half.

Fall in love, my butt.

I’d be lucky not to fall into depression.

It was only when my fingers wrapped around its delicate spine that I realized I wasn’t Romeo, who’d crushed a flower beneath his heel in the rose garden.

I didn’t want to kill something beautiful just because I could.

And the rose really was pretty. White as snow with sickle-shaped pricks adorning it.

“It’s not your fault.” I sighed, talking to the flower. “You’re right.”

With a frustrated groan, I tromped into the en suite bathroom, collected a Q-Tip container, and filled it with fresh water.

I stuck the rose in it, placing it on my nightstand.

The rose could live.

Even if my life had ended.





Cages aren’t made of bars. They’re made of thoughts, expectations, and fear.

My favorite quote—now ruined by Romeo Costa, who made a liar out of Henry Plotkin.

The cage Romeo trapped me in was a Corinthian palace made of cobblestone piazzas, antique pavements, and gold-plated everything. A home clean and tidy. With a floor so spotless, you could eat off it.

When I ran out of rooms to explore, I slipped into the garden and soaked the last sunrays in the sky, tucked between lush lilac bushes.

Afterwards, I retreated inside to scour through every landing, hallway, nook, and corner.

The haunting quiet made the little hairs on my arms stand on end.

Absolute, utter silence.

To the point where I couldn’t hear a thing.

Not the birds chirping, the AC buzzing, nor the appliances humming.

Each wall must’ve been padded from within. How fitting that my future husband—the one with thick, unbreakable layers of ice around his heart—guarded his house in the same exact way.

No wonder he hated me.

I had zero inhibitions, wore my heart on my sleeve, and as Daddy often said, could be heard from most states in North America.

Around six in the evening, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in almost forty hours. Not since Romeo forced me on that plane and I binged on cheese, crackers, and shrimp chips.

It was time to explore the most important room in the house.

Squaring my shoulders, I paraded to the lavish chef’s kitchen. The faint scent of cooked food drifted from pots and pans on the stovetop.

I placed a hand on a lid—still warm—and peered inside.

My face fell.

“Ugh.”

Brussel sprouts and chicken breast?

I knew the man didn’t have a heart, but did he lack taste buds, too?

“Problem?”

The voice was so loud compared to my recent noiseless existence, I jumped.

Swiveling, I came face to face with a woman.

Hettie, I assumed.

Petite, edgy, and no more than a few years older than me, she wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

Though I hated my future husband, I couldn’t help but feel a little panicked by the idea that someone so lovely roamed his house all hours of the day.

He literally put you between his legs and patted your head.

You should be rooting for these two to fall in love.

I pursed my lips, moving to the fridge. “No problem.”

Why did the hot-pink tips of her blonde hair look so cool?

And why did her lip ring make me want one of my own?

Momma would have a heart attack.

Hettie wrinkled her nose. “Then why the ugh when you opened the lid? Is my food not good enough for your majesty?”

“I’m sure it’s great.” I threw the fridge open. “But I want something comforting. And this is…”

She snorted. “Terrible?”

I whipped my head to stare at her.

Despite my dark mood, a smile tugged on my lips. “I was going to say healthy, but…Brussel sprouts? Dude, hardcore.”

She giggled. “Blame Romeo. His diet is so strict. It’s all oatmeal and lean protein and leafy greens twenty-four seven. That six-pack-flaunting peacock.”

So, she knew he had a six-pack.

A wick of interest ignited in me.

“Is that all you make for him?”

Hiring a personal chef to make you chicken breast and Brussel sprouts every day was like going to a Chanel store to buy nail polish.

Unless she was doing more than cooking.

“Yes!” Hettie flung her arms up, leaning back on the stool she’d claimed. Her cropped Joy Division shirt rose, exposing flat abs above her skinny jeans. “It’s terrible. I took this job straight from Le Cordon Bleu. Figured it’s rent free and pays a ton, so I could save up and pay back my student loans. But it is painfully boring to make healthy, fat-free food.”