Sun Chara - Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

“I’d rather be poor and free, than like… like Rapunzel in her tower.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Ye-es,” she said, her eyes sparking fire. “I’d rather be poor and happy than—”

“And how many poor happy people do you know?” he asked, his words cynical.

“I haven’t counted—”

He guffawed, a dry, humorless sound, and eclipsed her flip retort.

“Money, power, and prestige are the only things that matter to you,” she said, tone resigned.

“Where did you get that idea?”

“From what you’ve done.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve put your profession before our marriage a-and everything.”

“And that makes me a bad guy?”

“I don’t know.” She crinkled her forehead. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” He paced the floor twice. “There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, amore mia .”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugged.

She frisked him with her eyes. “You’re a real smooth operator.” A smile teased the corner of her mouth, and she nipped it away with her teeth. “Didn’t mean it to come out a pun.”

He cocked his head, debated, and then simply said, “You could be mistaken in your assessment.”

His childhood hadn’t seemed to matter, so he hadn’t told her. Later, he’d gotten buried in work and when he surfaced, he wanted to hold her, love her. Apparently, that hadn’t been enough for her.

He rubbed the back of his neck and refrained from confiding in her, still. Maybe he wanted her to take him at face value. Wanted her to think more of him than the shallow, controlling bastard she coined him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“No?”

“No, yes.” She avoided meeting his searching gaze. “I don’t know.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then nodded. “How will you live? What will you do?”

“I’ll sing for my supper,” she tossed back.

“Parading yourself before—”

She leaped up, but he grabbed her arm before she found her mark. Her gaze collided with his midnight-blues. Her chest heaved. His nostrils flared. The silent war waged between them, then she twisted from his grasp,rubbing her wrist.

“Did I hurt—?” He reached for her.

“No.” She half-turned from him, knowing in her heart this man would never, could never, hurt her. Then why was she putting them through purgatory? Her heart bled. Because she preferred to go through it than dwell on it. “I-I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t make a decent living without some skill.”

“I’ll learn.” She stood erect to her full five-foot four inches, not wanting him to dwarf her.

“Everything’s high tech.”

“I’ll take a class.”

“Costs money.”

“I have—” He lifted an eyebrow, and she amended, “I’ll find work in one of the clu … er … restaurants.”

He set his mouth, not missing her near slip, but chose not to address it. “In the meantime?”

“I’ll manage.”

“How?”

Exasperated at his inquisition, she blurted, “I’ll marry money.”

He laughed, a savage sound. “You’re married to money now.” Silence thickened, tension built and crackled with his flint-hard words.

“Admit it, Ellie.” He curled his lip, contempt carving his features. “You didn’t marry me. You married my pocketbook.”

“No.” She reached for him, but when he twisted away, she glanced down at her boots. She hadn’t meant those harsh words. Said them to annoy him, because she hurt being so close to him and him not understanding her. She peeked at him through her lashes, but the wall of his back pricked her resentment.

It had always been about his life, his career, and his agenda. While he flourished, she wasted away. But Ellie could no longer deny herself. Not for her parents. Not for her husband. She had to take a firm stand to show him, and herself, that she was more than the millionaire doctor’s appendage.

“Why did you marry me, Ellie?” He spun around, snaring her in his hypnotic gaze. “If not for cash to anchor papa–”

Her eyes snapped open wide. “Don’t you dare drag him into this.”

But fury fueled him, and he was on the attack. “—drowning in the bottle…getting sacked ag—”

“I won’t hear you bad-mouthing—”

He tossed his head back and laughed, the sound sending chills chasing up her spine.

“He’s working at the University in Sussex…he’s keeping it together …taking care of mom and Joey,” she said, feeling the need to defend him. “He’s in rehab.”

“So he is.” Peter stroked his chin deep in thought. “Took long enough to get him there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged.

“They’re doing okay.” She raised her chin to score her point and glanced away from his laser-sharp look.

Wind-tossed rain slashed against the windowpane, compounding the bleakness of her mood. Her shoulders sagged.

“Good to hear,” Peter said, his words clipped. “But for how long?”

“You wouldn’t dare eclipse his job like you did mine.”

A dangerous pause, and his eyes glinted like agates.

“My net worth had nothing to do with us?” he ground out, her accusation nicking his pride.

“Everything isn’t about dollars and cents.”

“No?” His lip curled with cynicism. “You said ‘I do’ because…” he prompted.

“Oh, you’re impossible,” she fired back and fell into the ocean storm of his eyes. Confused, she blinked. “Same reason you married me.”

“That is?” He held her gaze captive.

“I-I-I …” She inched away from him, clutching the seams of her coat. “Peter, I—”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Wha-at do you mean?”

He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “Good-bye, Ellie.”

The slamming of the front door echoed in her ears, and she collapsed on the sofa. “Goo-ood-bye, Peter.”

It was what she wanted, after all. For him to be away from her, so she could think straight and get her life in order. But why was her heart splintering and her breath gagging in her throat? She squeezed her hands closed and her fingernails dug into her palms. Be strong . She burst into tears, the past flitting through her mind for what seemed like an eternity.

A heavy sigh resonated from deep inside her and she swiped at her cheeks. She had to get something to eat. How far could she stretch three dollars? Even a McDonald’s burger and fries spun into the stratosphere.

A wistful smile brushed her mouth. She tried to push herself up, but her lethargic body resisted. She fell back on the cushions. Despair filled her. She gave in and closed her eyes … just for a minute.

Time ticked by.

She couldn’t stay here. The walls seemed to be closing in around her. Memories haunted, taunted her. She dragged herself up and the room swayed every which way. She groaned and clutched her temples.

Disorientated, she burst through the front door and dashed down the dimly lit stairs. In her haste, she tripped over the third step and hurled headlong down to the landing, her scream muted by blaring horns of rush-hour traffic. Blackness sucked her under.

* * *

Dr. Peter Medeci heard the ambulance siren and hurried to the Emergency of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Two medics were rushing in with the injured on a stretcher.

“911 call,” one said, while a third handed him the report. “Caucasian female, twenty-eight, head trauma.”

Peter glanced at the chart and shifted his gaze to the patient. His vitals short-circuited. Blood drained from his face, and he struggled for oxygen, his heart seeming to freeze in his chest. Then, his years of professional discipline kicked in. He pressed his fingers at the pulse point of her wrist and sent up a prayer of thanks. The gash on her forehead, he didn’t like.