"Me too."
Chapter 44: Renato
The villa feels different when we return.
I pull the Ferrari into the courtyard and cut the engine, and for a moment neither of us moves. We've been cocooned in this bubble of normalcy for hours.
Returning here means returning to reality. To what I did to her.
"That was perfect," she says again, breaking the silence. "Thank you again."
"Thank you for coming with me." I want to reach for her hand, to extend this connection, but I don't. The daylight rules are clear—we don't touch, don't acknowledge, don't make this into something we have to name.
She opens her door and climbs out, and I watch her stretch in the afternoon sun. She's wearing simple clothes—jeans and a sweater—but she looks more beautiful than she did in any of the designer dresses I bought her.
We walk toward the entrance together, and I'm hyperaware of the space between us. Close enough that I could touch her. Far enough that I don't.
"Would you like a glass of wine before dinner?" I'm not ready for this day to end. Not ready to return to the careful distance we maintain when the sun is up. "We could sit on the terrace. The sunset should be beautiful tonight."
She pauses at the door, and I see something flicker across her face. Temptation, maybe. Or just consideration.
Then she smiles, soft, almost apologetic. "I think I'm just going to rest in my room this evening. It was a long day."
"Of course." I keep my voice neutral. Like her refusal doesn't feel like rejection. Like I wasn't hoping we could stretch this perfect day just a little longer. "You must be tired."
"It was wonderful though." She touches my arm briefly, so quick I almost miss it. "Really. One of the best days I've had in a very long time."
Then she's gone, disappearing up the stairs while I stand in the foyer like an idiot, still feeling the ghost of her fingers on my arm.
One of the best days she's had in a very long time.
But not good enough to extend into evening.
I head to my study and pour three fingers of scotch, downing it in one swallow. The burn does nothing to ease the hollow ache in my chest.
What did I expect? That one perfect day would erase everything I've done to her? That laughter in a Ferrari somehow makes up for kidnapping her from her wedding, for manipulating her, for putting her through those "training sessions" that still make me sick when I think about what I was pretending to prepare her for.
The hope that bloomed during our drive—the dangerous, devastating hope that maybe we could have this, could be this, could build something real from the wreckage of what I did—curls up and dies in my chest.
She comes to me in the darkness because she needs to heal. Not because she wants me. Not because of us. It’s only about her taking back what was stolen.
I can never forget the one terrible truth about us.
You don't get to keep the princess after you're the one who locked her in the tower.
My phone buzzes with messages from Matteo—updates on business, questions about shipments. I ignore them all. Tonight, I don't give a fuck about business.
The sun sinks lower, painting the mountains in shades of orange and pink. The sunset is as beautiful as I predicted. I watch it alone through my study window, nursing my scotch.
Dinner is a solitary affair. Ossobuco that tastes like crap. Wine I don't drink. The hours crawl by.
Nine o'clock. Ten. Eleven. Midnight.
I should go to bed. Should at least go to my room and maintain the pretense that I might sleep.
But I don't.
Because going to my room means hoping. Means lying in that bed waiting for footsteps that won't come. Means torturing myself with expectation that she'll appear at my door like she did last night.
