I steeled myself, waiting for Liam to say those two meaningless words.

"It doesn't go away," he said instead, "The hurt never goes away. But you will get used to it, as much as you can. I saw you be happy today. Let yourself be happy. I think if you do, you'll really believe that you didn't trade him for this."

"Just hold me," I said. I know it sounds ridiculous, seeing as I was already sat naked next to him in that tub, but I felt as though I'd just been stripped bare. But that's the only way I can describe it.

I'd shown him what was behind my eyes, and he didn't shrink away or retreat. He held me, just like I asked him to.

Chapter 8

Two blissful days passed after my confession. It felt like I walked everywhere on a cloud. Food tasted better. Colors were brighter. Despite the age of the city around me, everything felt fresh and new.

Liam had taken me to see the Sistine Chapel, and I'd been so inspired after seeing the Creation of Adam in person that after I got back to my flat I'd completed my essay days ahead of schedule.

Then he'd taken me on a boat cruise of the Tiber river. And then we'd retired back to his hotel. Not only was I truly happy, I was also sore. But I loved it.

I felt fresh and new, too. I did think of my dad a few times, and it hurt still. But in a different way. Like a bone that you know is healing. It was a pain I knew I could bear.

"What is it? Why are you so happy suddenly?" Isabella said. She'd bought a small Mediterranean-style salad from the stall at the food court. I'd gotten one, too.

After buying our food, we'd went and joined Carlotta and Maria at the table in the hall, where they ate their lunches.

Maria shared two courses with me, and we traded notes on occasion. Carlotta was a grad student like Isabella, and was her friend. They liked to come and practice their conversational English with me, and I my Italian with them.

Today it was English day.

Together, the four of us formed a small social circle.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, the heat already rising to my cheeks.

"It is Liam, isn't it?" Isabella said, her lovely eyes taking on a feline cast, "He is the cause of all this joy."

Carlotta and Maria both asked who Liam was, also curious about my shift in personality.

So I pulled out my phone and showed them a picture I'd taken of the two of us sharing a plate of spaghetti at a restaurant he'd taken me to when we'd visited the Forum.

"Oh!" Carlotta said, taking my phone. She and Maria fawned over the photo, talking about how handsome Liam was and how it was no wonder I looked so happy.

They mooned over him so much that jealousy flashed across my mind. "Okay, that's enough. Hand it back."

When I got the phone back, I stuffed it back into my pocket quickly before Isabella could ask to see it. All three of them were quite beautiful, and I have to admit that it would be for the best if I didn't introduce them to Liam.

Not that I didn't trust him. It was them I didn't trust.

"Tell us about Liam," Carlotta said, my jealousy again flashing at the lyrical way his name sounded in her accent. She flicked her glossy black hair back behind her ears, "A man like this, I cannot believe you found one. Usually they are all... what is the idiom? Taken. They are always taken."

Maria leaned in, "Perhaps he is already taken? A handsome man like this, he could have many mistresses." The way she said it made it sound like she wouldn't mind being one of them.

However, when she saw the way I blanched at that she continued, "It is just the way of things here. You shouldn't be upset. It is like being upset that the sun rises in the east instead of the west."

"Maybe," I said, "But Liam isn't Italian. He's American, like me."

Maria shrugged. "Perhaps." The way she said it irritated me so much that I began losing that happy buzz I'd had the past couple of days.

I also decided to hold back on that bit of information about him receiving calls from a woman. They'd surely tell me it was his mistress or girlfriend or wife, no matter if I said I trusted him when he told me she was a colleague. They didn't know Liam like I did.

It bothered me so much that I decided to cut lunch short.

I got up, telling them that I had Dr. Aretino's course next and that I had some studying to do before the lecture that I'd been putting off.

It wasn't exactly a lie. I did have to go to his lecture in a couple of hours. And it was probably a good idea to go over the readings for it again. Really I just wanted to get away from Maria and Carlotta and their accusations.

Soon thereafter I arrived back at my flat, taking the stairs two at a time, eager to get inside. I wondered if maybe I could pull Liam away from his business so he could come over and make me forget about everything that those awful women had said.

Except, when I reached the door I found it wasn't locked. I distinctly remembered locking it before leaving for the campus, too. The deadbolt made a distinct click when it slid into place, and I'd heard it that morning.

I looked at the brass latch for a while, trying to decide what to do, trying to tell myself that I'd actually forgotten to lock it. That someone hadn't broken into my one room flat and made off with my laptop and the essay on it that I had quite stupidly forgotten to back up to my email yet.

So I opened the door, expecting to find my bed tossed, my old desk smashed to splinters, and all my expensive textbooks and my laptop missing.

Instead I found a woman sitting at my desk chair, which she'd turned to face the door.

We took each other in in an instant. She was pretty. Really pretty. Cheekbones to embarrass a cat, incredible, soft eyes and red lips that begged to be kissed.

She was a strawberry blonde, and the tight ponytail she had her long hair pulled back into gave her angular face a sinister and severe cast.

She wore a grey blazer and a matching skirt, one pantyhose-clad leg crossed over the other. She had her hands folded in her lap, and I noticed then that she'd painted her nails the same red shade as her lipstick.

Despite all that, I got the impression that she was probably only a few years older than me. If this was a robbery, she was about as far from my idea of a robber as she could get.

But somehow I knew that this wasn't a robbery. No, this, I could sense, was something much worse than that.

"...Hi?" I said, feeling self-conscious at my lack of makeup that day, the frizzy hair, the comfy pants and shoes I wore.

Her opinion of me showed itself with a slight sniff and a rolling of the eyes. "You're the one?" She spoke clearly, her red lips shaping each syllable with perfect clarity. This was a woman used to no small portion of power.

"The one what?" I replied, even though I also sensed that her question was at least partly rhetorical. The tone she said it in made me feel self conscious once more, and I had the urge to grab my brush and run it through my hair until it was silky smooth and straight.

"You are Emma Weston, correct?" she said.

She rubbed me the wrong way. Everything about her. Her overly perfect face. Her expensive clothes. The look of superiority in her eyes. And that got my back up, helped me regain some of my own composure.

"I am. Can I get your name, so that I can tell the police when I call them?" I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Unlike back home, you didn't dial 911 here. Instead, you got the police after punching 113 into your phone. I thumbed the 1 key on the pad twice, my finger hovering over the 3.