The thought twists my stomach, sharp and nauseating.
Which brings up another thought, one I can’t push away now that it’s lodged in my head—this place.
How in the hell can he afford this?
The sprawling property, the marble kitchen, the forest wrapping around us like a private kingdom—it’s not soldier money. Not even the kind of money my father paid him for saving the other girls and me all those years ago. That was a lot, but notthis.
So where does it come from?
The question about Raffael’s money lingers, but it’s no longer just about him. It’s about me. About what I don’t know. About the lies I’ve lived under before. The man I dreamed would come for me—the one I built up in my head all those nights Roberto locked me away—he might not be the same man who brought me here. And I don’t just mean the new scars on his face.
What if he’s lying to me?
Roberto lied for six months. Convincingly. Six months of sweet words, gentle touches, and promises whispered in the dark. He made me believe I was safe with him, that maybe my father hadn’t sold me to a monster after all. And then… then came our wedding night.
I can still see it. The moment the mask slipped. The way he looked at me, like he’d been waiting to sink his claws in. He loved every second of watching the truth dawn on my face. That wasn't the worst, though, oh no. He made me relive that night every year on our anniversary. Every. Single. Year.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin. Our anniversary is next month.
My heart pounds, my breathing turns sharp and shallow, and my hands start to tremble as I press them to my knees, but it doesn’t stop.
Three years.
Three years of bruises and broken skin. Three years of hearing my own screams and knowing no one would come. Three years of being told I was nothing, of learning to be silent, small, invisible. Three years stolen from me by a man who got away with it because no one cared enough to stop him.
The sorrow claws up my throat until I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, my eyes burn, and the tears spill before I can swallow them back. They’re hot, fast, and relentless, like they’ve been waiting for permission.
I bend forward, wrapping my arms around my middle, rocking without meaning to. I want to scream, to tear the walls down, to make the whole world hear what he did to me. But all that comes out is a broken, gasping sound.
It feels like I’m drowning in everything I couldn’t say for three years.
The air feels too thin, like I’m trying to breathe through a straw. My nails bite into my own arms as if holding myself together physically might keep me from completely shattering.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness behind them is worse. All I hear is his voice, his hands moving to his belt, the sound of the lock clicking shut. All I smell is his cologne, which turns my stomach. I can’t stop shaking. My teeth chatter, my muscles tremble, and it’s not from the cold.
I hate him. God, I hate him. But I hate myself too, for surviving the way I did. For giving him what he wanted just to make the pain stop. For losing myself so completely that now, even free, I don’t know where to find me again.
The sob that rips out of me is jagged and ugly, but once it’s out, the rest come faster. I press my forehead to my knees, the sound of my own crying filling the room, bouncing off the walls, making me feel exposed even though no one’s here.
Or so Ithought.
A shift in the air makes me lift my head.
He’s there.
Raffael stands just inside the doorway, his eyes locked on me like he’s seeing something that hurts to look at, but he can’t turn away. He doesn’t move right away, just watches with a tight jaw and his hands curling into fists at his sides.
I scrub at my face, wishing I could hide all of this from him, but my hands are shaking too hard. Then he’s moving, fast, like a prowling jaguar. When he’s close enough, he drops to his knees in front of me.
"Sophia…" His voice is rough, like it’s scraped over gravel, and hearing it makes my chest ache.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
He reaches out, hesitantly, his eyes silently asking for permission. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think. What does he want from me? What does he expect? I don't know what I'm going to say, but the words come on their own before I can stop them. "Make it stop. Please. Make it stop."
Something in his face shatters. His jaw tightens, like he’s holding back everything he wants to say, everything he wants to do. His hands close around mine, not hard, but like he’s trying to anchor me to the here and now, as if he could physically pull me out of the place in my head where the memories keep dragging me under.
"I will," he says, and it’s not a promise; it’s a vow, low and fierce, like it’s already written into him. "I don’t care what I have to do, Sophia. I’ll burn the world down if that’s what it takes."
