The Italian's Bought Bride

‘It is odd,’ Stefano agreed, his voice pitched low to match hers. ‘But not unpleasant, surely.’

‘I expected you to hate me.’ Her eyes opened, widened. Waited.

He shrugged. ‘Why should I, Allegra? It was a long time ago. You were young, afraid. You had your reasons. And, in the end, we didn’t know each other very well, did we? A handful of dinners, a few kisses. That was all.’

Allegra nodded, accepting, though her throat was tight. He’d distilled their relationship down to its rather shallow essence, and yet it had been the most profound experience of her life.

‘Do you hate me?’ Stefano asked with surprising, easy candour. Allegra looked up, startled, and saw a shadow flicker through his eyes.

‘No,’ she said, and meant it. ‘No. I’ve moved past it, Stefano.’ She smiled, tried to keep her voice light. Breezy. ‘It was a long time ago, as we’ve both agreed, and I’ve realized that you never lied to me. I just believed what I did because I wanted to.’

‘And what did you believe?’ Stefano asked softly. Allegra forced herself to meet his gaze directly.

‘That you loved me…as much as I loved you.’

The words seemed to reverberate between them and for a strange second Allegra felt like the girl she’d been seven years ago, standing before Stefano and asking, Do you love me?

He’d never answered then, and he didn’t now.

Allegra let out a breath. What had she expected? That he’d tell her he had loved her, that it had all been a mistake, a misunderstanding?

No, of course not. It hadn’t been a mistake. It had been the right thing to do. For both of them.

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