“Let me go, Giacomo.” I repeat it, firmer this time.
Nothing.
So I take his thumb in my free hand and wrench it back, hard. He hisses through his teeth, his grip breaking just enough for me to tear my wrist out of his hold.
He steps back, only half a step, but it’s enough to see something flicker across his face—surprise, brief and sharp, like he didn’t think I’d ever fight him.
I lift my chin. I meet his stare without wavering. I pull every buried shard of anger and fear and humiliation I’ve been swallowing for months and let them settle over me like armor. I refuse to shrink. I refuse to break. I refuse to let him see the part of me that still trembles.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m not an object for you to throw around. I am a person, Giacomo—not your rag doll, not your possession.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
When he makes no move to leave I steel my spine and hold my ground. I will not allow him to push me down anymore. He has not earned my submission; he took it from me forcibly. And now, I’m taking it back.
“You need to leave,” I repeat. “Or I will call security and have you removed. This is my home.”
The instant the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve struck a nerve. A dangerous one.
His jaw clenches, the anger in his eyes shifting from simmer to something cold and electric. The air tightens as if the room itself is bracing for impact. We stand locked in a silent standoff, the tension pressing against our chests like a physical weight.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at me,furious, calculating, and for the briefest moment… something else. Something softer. Something like respect warped into something far more dangerous.
And still, neither of us breaks. Neither of us blinks. Neither of us breathes. We hover on the edge of something that could break either way—peace if I am lucky, violence if I am not.
I brace myself for the worst.
A partof me even thinks of the man downstairs, the one I left in a utility closet with his hands on my body and his mouth on mine. If Matteo is home, all I need to do is scream. He’ll come. At least I hope he will.
But then Giacomo blinks.
And just like that,the fury drains from his face, vanishing so abruptly it leaves a hollow ache in its wake. He straightens, smoothing his shirt, forcing his muscles to relax in movements so precise and mechanical they feel unnatural—like he’s wrestling himself back into the mask he wears for the world.
“I think we need some space from each other,cara mia,” he says, voice soft, almost tender. He takes a step toward me. I take one back. He notices. He stops.
“I’m sorry for what I did, my love. I should have never been so harsh. I should have never handled you like that.” His voice thickens with practiced remorse. “You are my delicate flower,amore mio. I only worry for your well-being.”
He reaches for me, and I step back again. His hand drops, and for a moment he looks wounded, as ifI’mthe one who’s wrongedhim.
“Bea…”
“Just go.” My voice is calm, steady, final. “Please. I need to rest. It’s been a long day.”
He exhales, defeated in posture but not in spirit. “Forgive me,cara. I will make it up to you. I swear it.”
He turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The moment the latch falls into place, the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding tears out of me all at once. My hands shoot out to brace myself against the counter, palms flattening against the cold marble as if I need the stone to keep me standing.
My chest rises and falls too fast, air clawing in and out as panic surges, but then… something inside me snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just a quiet, decisive crack—like a thin branch breaking under the weight of too many storms.
I straighten. My body moves before my mind catches up.
I walk to the door and slide the deadbolt into place with a sharp, satisfying click.
