I’m miles away from home, taken from my family, and every hope I had for the future is now gone, lost somewhere I can’t reach.
I sit on the edge of the velvet sofa, legs crossed, fingers twisted in my lap. I’ve been here for three weeks now.
I keep circling the same thoughts.
My mother’s tear-stained face when she met me on the tarmac before I boarded the jet Giacomo chartered.
She didn’t want me to go, but we both knew what would happen if I stayed. Holding her on the tarmac, I felt how frail the sickness had made her.
I twiddle my thumbs and wait for my fiancé to finish his call. The ring he gave me last week glistens in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
It’s gaudy and huge—a far cry from what I would’ve chosen. But I’ve come to realize nothing in my life will ever be what I want again. I’m no longer my own; I belong to Giacomo.
My father traded me to save my mother, like I was a deal to be made.
I keep telling myself to accept it… but the truth is, it’s breaking me.
I want to be angry. I want to hate him. But I can’t.
I would’ve done the exact same thing. I would’ve laid my head on the chopping block and made the same decision if Giacomo had approached me.
“You like it?” Giacomo’s thick voice shifts to English. When I lift my head, he’s staring right at me.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “And… overwhelming.”
“It’s different from the place you had on the third floor,” he says, watching me closely. “This is the penthouse. More space. More privacy. I’d say I chose well.”
I’m sure three of my old townhouses could fit inside this place.
Giacomo stands by the window, his profile carved in golden sunlight and shadow. Then he walks over to the piano not far from where I sit, picks up a black folder, and approaches me. He sets it gently in my lap.
“I bought it,” he says casually as he moves toward the bar. “The apartment. It’s yours now.”
I blink.
“What?”
He pours himself a glass of something clear, then turns back to me. “One of two penthouses in this building. Now it’s yours.”
My stomach twists.
I should be over the moon, but instead unease spreads through me. Gifts like this don’t feel like gifts. They feel like price tags, ones I’m not sure I’m ready to pay.
“That’s… unnecessary,” I murmur. “I don’t need a place this big.”
“It’s a gesture,” he says, walking back toward me with his glass in hand. “I know this isn’t how you imagined your wedding—much less your marriage—would happen. But I want you to feel safe. Taken care of.”
I have no words, so I simply nod. I look away from him and down at the folder. When I open it, there’s my name on the deed.
I’ve never owned anything remotely this expensive. I’m afraid to even ask how much it cost him.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Beatrice,” he says gently, crouching so we’re at eye level. “I know the kind of world I come from. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to treat a woman well.”
He reaches out, lightly brushing a strand of my hair away—more a claim than comfort. I feel… nothing. Just a distant awareness of his fingers and the instinct to keep my expression neutral.
“What world do you come from?” I ask, though I don’t need the answer. I already know who he is. A few Google searches told me everything I needed. “How dangerous are you, Giacomo? Truly?”
“You know already, cara.” He cups my cheek and draws my face closer. I can smell the vodka on his breath; it burns the inside of my nostrils. “You forget, cara, nothing you do in my home is private. You know who I am… what I am. But I’ll tellyou this—there is no need to be afraid. I’m not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”
