His hand freezes mid-air. His eyes flicker with guilt… and remnants of that same anger.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, softer now, as if lowering his voice could shrink the violence he created. “I lost my temper.”
“It’s too late for sorry.” My voice shakes, but not from fear— from rage and the shock still ringing through me. “Get out.”
“Bea—”
“Out.”
“Leave before I scream bloody murder.” I pour every ounce of anger and hatred I’ve bottled up for months into those words. “You are not the man I thought you were.”
“Beatrice, it was an accident.”
He triesto reach for me again, but I pull away. “Okay, I won’t touch you, but at least let me take you to the doctor so he can look at your cheek.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I need you to leave. I need space and time.”
For a moment, I think he might say something else. Beg. Threaten. A combination of both?
But instead, he turns on his heel—no words, no sound—and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing alone in the tiled room with adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I don’t know how long I stand there without moving. Blood rushes past my ears like a raging wave.
The silence after he leaves is deafening.
No footsteps.No voices. Just the echo of the door clicking shut and my own heartbeat pounding against my ribs.
I crumble onto the cold tile floor, one hand pressed to my chest as I try to slow my racing heart.
I forcedown the fear and the anxiety, let the anger take over. But now—in the thick, suffocating aftermath—they all mix together. A toxic concoction that leaves me heaving, gasping for air.
I stood up to him. I held my ground. So why do I feel like I can barely stand now? Why is my body trembling? Is it fear? Anger? Disbelief?
Maybe all.
I reach for my purse. With shaking fingers, I dig through lipstick and trinkets until I find my phone… only for it to slip, hit the floor, and skid under the sink.
I crawl after it. When my fingers finally wrap around the case, I unlock it with trembling hands.
My thumb hovers over his number—the very number I’d considered deleting only days ago.
I don’t think.
I just presscall.
It rings once.
“Beatrice?”
My mouth opens, but at first, nothing comes out. My heart thrums violently—one… two… three…
Then everything spills out at once.
“Matteo… can you come pick me up?” I whisper, my voice breaking as tears return, spilling faster now. “Please. I’m—I’m at Padrino’s.”
There’s a beat of silence. I hear him exhale sharply, like he’s already moving.
“I’m on my way,” he says instantly.
