Three blocks. That's all I manage before I hear his voice.
"Frances."
Not shouted. Not angry. Just said with that quiet authority that makes people stop mid-step, that makes my body respond before my mind can object. I keep running, but my body's already betraying me, slowing without my permission.
His fingers wrap around my arm, firm but careful, like he's catching something precious that might break. The care in his touch confuses me more than force would. When he turns me to face him, I'm prepared for rage. Instead, I find something worse: hurt flickering in those green eyes, genuine confusion mixed with something that looks almost like concern.
My body recognizes his touch before my mind processes it, leaning into his warmth even as I want to pull away. This betrayal hurts worse than anything: my own skin choosing him over freedom.
"Where are you going?" he asks softly, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist where my pulse hammers.
"Away. Anywhere. I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't do this."
"Do what?"
"Be whoever you're trying to make me into with those clothes and jewels. I'm nobody, don't you understand? Nobody." The words pour out, dangerous and true.
He studies my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a tear I didn't know had fallen, and the gentleness makes everything worse.
"You have nowhere else to go," he says, and it's not cruel. It's just true. Devastatingly, horribly true.
"That's not—" I start, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.
"Where would you sleep tonight? Your parents won't take you back. You were bred to marry, and I'll never divorce you, so what else would you do?" Each question lands hard. "You're Mrs.Alessandro Rosetti now. That's who you are. The only identity that matters."
I scoff. I wasn't bred to marry, I was bred to serve. But with him, there is little difference.
"Come back," he says, and it's not quite a command. "Let me take care of you."
The fight drains from my body. He takes my hand, caught but gentle, and leads me back toward Michigan Avenue. Back toward the boutique. Back to being Frances.
"Those photographers across the street," he says quietly, "they're watching us right now. Wondering why Alessandro Rosetti is standing on a sidewalk with his runaway bride. By tomorrow, the photos will be everywhere. The Hewson princess who tried to escape her Rosetti husband." His eyes search mine. "Is that what you want? To humiliate us both?"
"No." The word comes out broken. "I don't want to hurt you."
Something flickers across his face: surprise, maybe. Like he didn't expect me to care about his feelings in this arranged marriage built on lies.
"Then come inside. Wear the beautiful clothes. Play the part." His voice drops lower. "Stop fighting what you can't change."
He's right. This truth breaks what's left of my resistance. I have nowhere else to be, no other life waiting for me. The cage door is open, but there's nothing beyond it except empty space where Emma used to exist.
7 - Alessandro
“Let me be clear about our arrangement.”
I don't look at my wife as the Bentley glides through Chicago's Gold Coast toward the Marchetti estate. She's pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as the leather seats allow, staring out at the city lights like they hold secrets she's trying to decode.
"You'll wear my ring. Bear my name. Stand beside me at events like tonight's." I adjust my cufflinks, the Rosetti crest catching the passing streetlights. "But that's where it ends. I didn't choose this marriage, and I won't pretend otherwise. I'll be discreet, of course, but don't expect faithfulness from a man who was forced to the altar."
She turns slightly, and I catch her profile—delicate features. The careful stillness of her hands.
"I understand," she says quietly. No tears, no protests, no demanding to know about my intentions. Just acceptance.
It irritates me for reasons I can't name.
"The Marchettis are old family allies," I continue, needing to fill the silence. "Play the devoted wife for a few hours. Smile, don't speak unless spoken to, and try not to embarrass yourself. Or me."
"Of course."
