Enzo's Pov
A life sentence? I groan as I turn over on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. I haven't seen her in about an hour, but her words have clung to me since she left the room. This was all this marriage was going to be—a transaction. She doesn't seem interested in me romantically, but she also doesn't appear to want to leave. It's a strange, frustrating standoff. Did her parents want shares so much?
I let out a scoff as I lay there, my hands behind my head. Robbin is still blowing up my phone. She's reluctantly accepted the idea of an open marriage, but how am I going to explain to her that my new wife doesn't even take her or this situation seriously?
I can't find the right word to describe the woman I married. She's a puzzle piece caught in a hurricane, completely unpredictable. I'm beginning to doubt if I may have severely underestimated her from the reports I'd been given.
The door opens and she finally walks back into the room, looking completely different than before. Her face is all cleaned up, much brighter now without the smudged makeup. Her hair is straightened and pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail.
She's wearing one of my old shirts that hangs loosely on her frame, showing off her smooth collarbones, and she keeps tugging at the hem to cover the shorts she's wearing underneath. I sit up, my mouth feeling oddly dry. In this light, with her features clear, she looks more like her sister, Eden, than the disheveled Eliza I've met before.
Of course, they are identical twins; it was one of the reasons my parents were so insistent on the match. But from what I'd seen, Eden was always much more put together, like a high-end supermodel who never had a hair out of place. And Eliza... she was simpler, in a very awkward, unassuming way.
She doesn't remember, but I've met her before, back when she was a junior intern journalist trying to get a scoop on the team.
She was quite shy then, didn't bother to hide her nervousness, blushing all red and pink while wearing an oversized coat and a graphic t-shirt with a large, unflattering skirt. Her iconic thick-framed glasses weren't left behind, and her skin had a few blemishes. How did it get so much clearer and brighter in just a few hours?
I'm not the type to judge a person's looks; I've only ever had eyes for Robbin. But the change is so stark it just doesn't add up.
"I'm Eden! She's lying! She's Eliza! I'm not going to marry him, I can't! I'm not meant to marry him!"
Her hysterical screams from the wedding flash through my head. Maybe... no, that can't be possible. It's ridiculous. But she is acting a lot different. I had gotten reports painting Eden as the bratty, difficult one, and I'd felt relieved that I didn't have to marry her. But this version of Eliza is way more confident and sharp-tongued than any description I ever received.
"The shopper guy came early," she says, clearing her throat and bringing me back to the present. I blink and stare at her, trying to reconcile the image with my memory. "I don't know how to umm..." she scratches the back of her neck, biting her cheek in a gesture that seems both frustrated and embarrassed.
"You don't know how to what?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Use the washing machine," she blurts it out quickly. When I just stay silent, too surprised to speak, she continues, her voice defensive. "Okay, look, this domesticated life isn't for me, alright? I can't use washing machines because I wasn't raised that way. We always had people for that."
I get up from the bed. "Well, you'll just have to learn to do it now. The staff won't come here until Saturday," I say, walking out of the room. I hear her footsteps as she follows me down the hall.
"Fine then," she grumbles, stomping a foot lightly behind me.
She watches as I start the laundry, mostly in silence but with an expression of pure awe, like this is a completely new, fascinating process for her. I let her soak in the moment. To keep her from getting bored and wandering off, I hand her a few of the new clothes to take the tags off. She accepts the task with a slight pout but gets to work at the laundry room table.
"Why can't they come during the week?" she asks, tossing a plastic tag into a small waste bin and handing me a neatly folded dress. "The staff, I mean. You have trust issues or something?"
"You could say that," I respond vaguely, not wanting to get into it. I turn to see her staring at me with a knowing little smirk. "What? You've never seen a man do laundry before?"
"Nothing... it's just, you're hot," she says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, before she gets back to her 'chore' of removing tags.
"I'm hot?" It comes out before I can stop it. It's arguably the nicest, most straightforward thing she's said to me since she got here. I rarely even do laundry myself; most times, Robbin comes over and helps out. But Eliza, with her complaining and her weird comments, somehow makes the whole mundane task feel like we're a team, like we've been drilled together for life.
"You're not ugly, are you?" she sighs, handing me another shirt. Then she smiles to herself again, a private, amused look. "At least people won't say I married a goblin. That's a plus."
"You thought I was a goblin?" I ask, shutting the washing machine door and turning the dial to start the cycle.
"I think all hockey players are, generally," she says with a shrug.
"You don't like hockey?" I ask, stepping a little closer to meet her gaze. She doesn't look away or cower, the way Robbin sometimes does when I'm being intense. She's hyper-confident, like I don't intimidate her in the slightest. Or maybe she's just that confident or comfortable?
"I hate it. Running around on ice? Playing with sticks? Hitting that little black thing around..." she waves a hand dismissively.
"Puck. It's called a puck. And at least you know the basics," I manage a short laugh. "You'll love the Manhattan Hounds wives' group, though."
Her brows furrow in confusion.
"My team," I shrug. "There's a spousal group. For events and things."
"Is it like a group for gossip and girls' hangout sessions? Where you drink wine and complain about your husbands?" she asks, her interest clearly piqued.
"Yeah," I say, "I think it's something like that."
"Sign me up." She grins, a real, wide smile this time. I let out a soft, involuntary chuckle before heading to check on the laundry again. When the cycle finishes, she stuffs the damp clothes into a hamper. "I'll fold them later. That was surprisingly hard work," she announces, as if she's just completed a marathon.
"Not bad for your first try," I concede.
"I'm good at everything, you know?" she says brazenly as we walk out of the laundry room and back into the hall.
"Interesting," I sigh, not sure what else to say to that.
The sun is almost setting; that must have taken more time than I thought. I realize I haven't eaten a thing all day.
"Stephano, I'm hungry." She whines right on cue, dragging out the syllables.
"It's Lorenzo, Elizabeth." My jaw tightens. I'm now fully convinced she does it on purpose. I change course for the kitchen and she follows closely behind, like a shadow.
"Sounds like you sell pasta," she continues, hopping onto one of the kitchen stools. "Do you know how to make pasta?" She makes herself comfortable, drumming her fingers on the marble countertop as I search through the cabinets for ingredients.
"Eliza...." I start, a warning in my tone.
"Enzo, Enzo, Enzo, Lorenzoooo," she chants, interrupting me.
"What is it now?" I sigh, pulling out a bag of flour.
"I'm just trying not to forget it," she shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
I groan internally. I should just make something to eat and hopefully it will shut her up for five minutes.
"What do you want to eat?" I ask, resigning myself to my fate as a temporary chef.
"Pasta. Obviously. Do you have a stereo player? You should play some Italian music too, really sets up the mood. You know, one time I went to Italy, loved it...you know there's this strict rule for making pasta, like you can't just knead the dough in a certain type of way or it's not authentic."
"I know, really, believe me," I say, measuring out the flour.
"Did you grow up in Italy?" she asks, her tone casual.
My heart gives a hard, sudden twitch at her question. I turn my back to her to get the pans, using the movement to hide my concern. "Not really."
"That explains the accent. Or lack of one, I mean. You sound like you've been in New York for years now."
"What do you know about Italian accents?" I ask, deflecting.
"Hello? I've been to Italy before, remember?" This cues her into narrating another long, detailed story about her Italian adventures and some famous designer she supposedly met.
It starts off as background noise, but it actually gets interesting at a point, and she entertains herself with a glass of fruit juice while I work on the dough. This night is going to be long, I can already tell. But I know it won't be as long as the 'life sentence' she so cheerfully promised.