The rumors spread faster than I can breathe. I thought I would have at least a few days to adjust, to understand what my life is becoming, but I don’t even get hours. By day two, half the city already knows I’m no longer Giacomo’s possession—I’m Matteo’s fiancée.
No official announcement.No press release.
Just whispers,headlines phrased carefully enough to avoid lawsuits yet bold enough that everyone who matters can read the truth right between the lines.
Beatrice Morelli, once betrothed to Giacomo Feriama, is now promised to young business tycoon Matteo Davacalli.
The shift in allegiance was a quiet earthquake, and somehow the world felt it before I even had the chance.
Matteo moved me within hours—out of the penthouse that had suffocated me, and into one of his own that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and new beginnings. He installed securityI can’t see and guards I can’t avoid, and wrapped my name beneath the weight of his own.
There’s a spotlight on me now, one that makes it impossible to hide. And yet, beneath the glare, I feel something I haven’t felt in months.
Relief.
Matteo’s name is a shield. His world, for all its danger, feels safer than the one I fled. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to smile on command. I don’t have to brace for the next storm.
But it’s temporary. All of it is temporary. And the question that beats behind every step I take is simple.
How long until Giacomo breaks through?
A sudden tug yanks me sideways, right before I collide with a wall of tinted glass. My phone nearly slips from my hand as I jerk back to reality. Valerio’s grip steadies me for half a second before he releases me like I’ve burned him.
“You need to watch where you’re going, principessa,” he mutters, the title dipped in annoyance rather than affection.
“Sorry,” I murmur, breathless more from nerves than the misstep. “I was just texting my dad.”
He grunts—his version ofI heard you—and continues toward the exit. I’ve learned he isn’t much of a talker. Or maybe he simply prefers not to talk to me.
We step out of Davacalli Tower and the cool city air hits my face. The black SUV idles at the curb, bulletproof glass catching the afternoon light. I glance down at my phone again, rereading my father’s message before responding.
Dad:We just landed in Florence. Mom is doing okay. Her check-up is next week. Be safe, amore mio.
Me:All good, Dad. Let me know if you need anything.
Dad:Will do. I hope you know what you’re doing, Bea. Giacomo is not a man to be played with.
Me:Neither is Matteo.
A throat clears.
I lift my gaze to find Valerio holding the car door open, eyebrows raised in a way that tells me his patience is wearing thin.
“Any day now,” he deadpans.
“Sorry,”I mutter, more to myself than to him, and slip my phone into my bag. I climb into the sleek SUV, the leather cool against my skin, and sink into the seat with a tight exhale I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Things with my father have been… strained is too gentle a word.
He’s furious,terrified, disappointed—all of it wrapped together in a way only a man watching his world burn could understand. I uprooted him and my mother overnight, sent them across an ocean with barely a warning. But there was no alternative. Not when, two nights after I left Giacomo, he reduced my father’s restaurant to ash and set our old townhouse ablaze like it was nothing more than a matchstick memory.
The thought of what else he might have done if I’d hesitated sends a cold shiver crawling along my spine.
For now, he has been quiet. But quiet is how storms gather.
And until this storm is over, I move with my own shadow—Valerio—who slides into the seat beside me just as the SUV pulls away from the curb.
“So what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, searching for anything to fill the silence stretching between us.
