thing he made clear to me repeatedly was that I didn’t measure up to what he wanted in a wife. He didn’t say it in as many words, but he definitely implied it whenever he would tell me he wanted me doing the dishes because it kept me in line, and when he would insist that I stay home instead of working because his job was more than sufficient to support us.
The kind of woman he wanted didn’t exist. The last one died in the 1950s. He was real big on traditional gender roles, meaning he didn’t like the fact that I had a job where I used my hands and made my own money. He, at the same time, wanted me to be his Suzy Homemaker while he went out to work or whatever it was that he did all day. He never told me.
What was worse was my dad supported him. He’d married me off and had become my husband’s greatest ally. He agreed with Marcelo that I shouldn’t work anymore, which nearly blew me down because I worked for him at his restaurant.
The features in food and drink magazines. The chef interviews, the clientele who paid through the nose to sit at my chef’s table and enjoy a VIP menu, he was ready to throw that all away so I could become Marcelo Orsini’s Stepford wife. What was it? Were the Orsinis the highest bidders? If he was going to marry me off, there had to be something in it for him. I was his only child. His only daughter. His little girl . If those things didn’t matter, I was the reason his restaurant had been getting rave reviews and VIP patrons. It cut me deep to think that he didn’t care about those things, didn’t care about me .
The manicure I had gotten for the wedding had been deteriorating with every plate I scrubbed. My hands were perpetually dry, and the multitude of nicks and cuts I had gotten from knives and cracked glasses left flaky healing marks. I would leave the Band-Aid on till I had finished the dishes then get rid of it.
How did this become my life?
I had experienced every emotion in the book, brief sparks of satisfied happiness when Marcelo kissed me at our wedding, loss and sadness when I realized we would be getting married, disgust, anger, even embarrassment. Now I was just bitter. Bitter that this was the way things had turned out. Bitter that I was married to someone because my father had made an enemy out of someone he should not have. Bitter because the feelings of two old men, honor, or justice, or something else vague like that meant I had to become someone’s wife.
The same for Marcelo, too. He was his father’s offering lamb, slain on the altar. Both of us were paying for the fact that our fathers couldn’t play nice together. And it was not right.
Chapter Two
Marcelo
Dandolo was an... interesting man, but he was generally one of high repute. He’d been a thorn in my family’s side for decades, but I trusted his pedigree and his breeding.
How the hell was it that he and his wife managed to raise a woman like Sophia?
What kind of girl didn’t know how to do the dishes?
At least she could cook. Of course , she knew how to cook, she was a chef for Christ’s sake before we got married. She was no slouch either. She’d trained in Europe and could cook French and Italian cuisine perfectly. She always asked me whether the food was good when she made it for me. It was, but I’d never admit it.
Sitting around the table with my guests, I heard the clinks and bangs from the kitchen. She had been in there all night at my request, but really I thought she would have been done by now. What was she still doing in there? Breaking more of my dishes most likely. Cursing my name. Cursing our fathers for setting us up in the first place.
As far as arranged marriages went, it could have been a lot worse. She was a decent housemate. She didn’t snore, and she didn’t have any disgusting habits that got on my nerves. She didn’t do anything particularly weird like practice nudism or demand all the windows remain
The kind of woman he wanted didn’t exist. The last one died in the 1950s. He was real big on traditional gender roles, meaning he didn’t like the fact that I had a job where I used my hands and made my own money. He, at the same time, wanted me to be his Suzy Homemaker while he went out to work or whatever it was that he did all day. He never told me.
What was worse was my dad supported him. He’d married me off and had become my husband’s greatest ally. He agreed with Marcelo that I shouldn’t work anymore, which nearly blew me down because I worked for him at his restaurant.
The features in food and drink magazines. The chef interviews, the clientele who paid through the nose to sit at my chef’s table and enjoy a VIP menu, he was ready to throw that all away so I could become Marcelo Orsini’s Stepford wife. What was it? Were the Orsinis the highest bidders? If he was going to marry me off, there had to be something in it for him. I was his only child. His only daughter. His little girl . If those things didn’t matter, I was the reason his restaurant had been getting rave reviews and VIP patrons. It cut me deep to think that he didn’t care about those things, didn’t care about me .
The manicure I had gotten for the wedding had been deteriorating with every plate I scrubbed. My hands were perpetually dry, and the multitude of nicks and cuts I had gotten from knives and cracked glasses left flaky healing marks. I would leave the Band-Aid on till I had finished the dishes then get rid of it.
How did this become my life?
I had experienced every emotion in the book, brief sparks of satisfied happiness when Marcelo kissed me at our wedding, loss and sadness when I realized we would be getting married, disgust, anger, even embarrassment. Now I was just bitter. Bitter that this was the way things had turned out. Bitter that I was married to someone because my father had made an enemy out of someone he should not have. Bitter because the feelings of two old men, honor, or justice, or something else vague like that meant I had to become someone’s wife.
The same for Marcelo, too. He was his father’s offering lamb, slain on the altar. Both of us were paying for the fact that our fathers couldn’t play nice together. And it was not right.
Chapter Two
Marcelo
Dandolo was an... interesting man, but he was generally one of high repute. He’d been a thorn in my family’s side for decades, but I trusted his pedigree and his breeding.
How the hell was it that he and his wife managed to raise a woman like Sophia?
What kind of girl didn’t know how to do the dishes?
At least she could cook. Of course , she knew how to cook, she was a chef for Christ’s sake before we got married. She was no slouch either. She’d trained in Europe and could cook French and Italian cuisine perfectly. She always asked me whether the food was good when she made it for me. It was, but I’d never admit it.
Sitting around the table with my guests, I heard the clinks and bangs from the kitchen. She had been in there all night at my request, but really I thought she would have been done by now. What was she still doing in there? Breaking more of my dishes most likely. Cursing my name. Cursing our fathers for setting us up in the first place.
As far as arranged marriages went, it could have been a lot worse. She was a decent housemate. She didn’t snore, and she didn’t have any disgusting habits that got on my nerves. She didn’t do anything particularly weird like practice nudism or demand all the windows remain
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