LOVE KILLS PASSION
November 16th, 10:17am
I 'm in love with Peter Ferro.
Damn it! How the hell did I let this happen? I hug my knees to my chest and hold on tightly, trying to squeeze the feeling from my body. It doesn't work. How could my heart betray me like this? I can't be in love with one of the manwhore brothers. It’s true, Pete has moments where he shines, where he's tender, passionate, and caring. I've fallen in love with that version of Peter. I want to cling to those moments, but they’re like an exploding star. Those moments are fleeting, and I'm stuck competing with the other women who are eternally in his orbit.
Footsteps draw nearer. I press my ear to the door, simultaneously afraid he's found me and hopeful he finally came looking for me.
“Gina, dammit! Where are you? We need to talk, and I'm not yelling something like this from the hallway.” That voice brings forth emotions within me that I can't identify. He's not angry, not quite arrogant. I've never heard him like this. Every instinct I have urges me to rush to him, but I can't. I can’t move. I’m crippled, leaning against the thick wooden door. I wonder how many women have cried against it, pouring their hearts out, knowing no one would ever hear their distress or truly care.
His voice is calmer this time, more like he’s chanting to himself as he pads past my door. “Damn it.”
He stops, just outside the door. I place a hand on the hard wooden surface. For a moment, I pretend I'm touching Pete the way I was in the ballroom. I move my hand quickly from the door, rubbing my palms against my thighs vigorously, wanting to wipe away any trace of him. He was with another woman. My little squabble with Anthony disrupted his moment of bliss with Miss Perfect. I wish I could disappear.
Pete's footfalls echo down the hall, becoming fainter with each step and silence settles over me. I start to shiver. I back away from the door until I bump into something hard behind me. My heart stops for a beat.
In my attempt to evade Pete, I didn't take note of which halls I ran down. I could be anywhere. I spin on the balls on my feet and take in my surroundings. Relief followed by another pang of heartache hits me in consecutive waves. I haven't strayed into forbidden territory, but what I see here is painful. There’s a massive mahogany desk, a soft leather couch, and stacks of musty old books strewn across every surface.
I'm in Pete's study.
My fingers caress the smooth wood, remembering our first encounter. I rest my palms on the desk and let out a silent sob. This room is where it all began, where he offered to--in his words--fuck me thoroughly and hard. I walk around the desk, looking at the books he's reading. A battered copy of Yeats' poetry has a single bookmark peeking out from its yellowed pages. I open the book and tears sting my eyes. It's the poem he recited to me that first night, When You Are Old .
The memory of him speaking echoes through the empty room:
Sex isn't love. In fact, your storybook notion of love is killing your passion until one day, all you'll feel for each other is numbness and resentment. It leaves you with a husband who satisfies his hunger for lust outside of your sacred love.
Oh, God! I can't do this. This can't be my life. I can't stand by like this while he falls for his mistresses. I can’t be the woman begging for leftover scraps of his emotions. I have to find a way to push him out of my heart. There's a good, caring man waiting for me tonight. I need to see him. If Pete can fall in love with a mistress, maybe I can learn to love Philip.
Screw it. No regrets. I need to get out of here, now. The chauffeurs may not be permitted to drive me anywhere, but Constance never mentioned anything about my leaving the grounds on my own.
With a determined stride, I make my way across the room and open the door a crack. When the coast is clear, I head for the garages.
STEALING... UH, BORROWING A CAR
November 16th,
November 16th, 10:17am
I 'm in love with Peter Ferro.
Damn it! How the hell did I let this happen? I hug my knees to my chest and hold on tightly, trying to squeeze the feeling from my body. It doesn't work. How could my heart betray me like this? I can't be in love with one of the manwhore brothers. It’s true, Pete has moments where he shines, where he's tender, passionate, and caring. I've fallen in love with that version of Peter. I want to cling to those moments, but they’re like an exploding star. Those moments are fleeting, and I'm stuck competing with the other women who are eternally in his orbit.
Footsteps draw nearer. I press my ear to the door, simultaneously afraid he's found me and hopeful he finally came looking for me.
“Gina, dammit! Where are you? We need to talk, and I'm not yelling something like this from the hallway.” That voice brings forth emotions within me that I can't identify. He's not angry, not quite arrogant. I've never heard him like this. Every instinct I have urges me to rush to him, but I can't. I can’t move. I’m crippled, leaning against the thick wooden door. I wonder how many women have cried against it, pouring their hearts out, knowing no one would ever hear their distress or truly care.
His voice is calmer this time, more like he’s chanting to himself as he pads past my door. “Damn it.”
He stops, just outside the door. I place a hand on the hard wooden surface. For a moment, I pretend I'm touching Pete the way I was in the ballroom. I move my hand quickly from the door, rubbing my palms against my thighs vigorously, wanting to wipe away any trace of him. He was with another woman. My little squabble with Anthony disrupted his moment of bliss with Miss Perfect. I wish I could disappear.
Pete's footfalls echo down the hall, becoming fainter with each step and silence settles over me. I start to shiver. I back away from the door until I bump into something hard behind me. My heart stops for a beat.
In my attempt to evade Pete, I didn't take note of which halls I ran down. I could be anywhere. I spin on the balls on my feet and take in my surroundings. Relief followed by another pang of heartache hits me in consecutive waves. I haven't strayed into forbidden territory, but what I see here is painful. There’s a massive mahogany desk, a soft leather couch, and stacks of musty old books strewn across every surface.
I'm in Pete's study.
My fingers caress the smooth wood, remembering our first encounter. I rest my palms on the desk and let out a silent sob. This room is where it all began, where he offered to--in his words--fuck me thoroughly and hard. I walk around the desk, looking at the books he's reading. A battered copy of Yeats' poetry has a single bookmark peeking out from its yellowed pages. I open the book and tears sting my eyes. It's the poem he recited to me that first night, When You Are Old .
The memory of him speaking echoes through the empty room:
Sex isn't love. In fact, your storybook notion of love is killing your passion until one day, all you'll feel for each other is numbness and resentment. It leaves you with a husband who satisfies his hunger for lust outside of your sacred love.
Oh, God! I can't do this. This can't be my life. I can't stand by like this while he falls for his mistresses. I can’t be the woman begging for leftover scraps of his emotions. I have to find a way to push him out of my heart. There's a good, caring man waiting for me tonight. I need to see him. If Pete can fall in love with a mistress, maybe I can learn to love Philip.
Screw it. No regrets. I need to get out of here, now. The chauffeurs may not be permitted to drive me anywhere, but Constance never mentioned anything about my leaving the grounds on my own.
With a determined stride, I make my way across the room and open the door a crack. When the coast is clear, I head for the garages.
STEALING... UH, BORROWING A CAR
November 16th,
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