Oliver’s voice rose, drawing glances from nearby tables. “What the fuck are you playing at, Vitale? Just what the hell do you want with Savannah?”
I felt trapped between them, the tension vibrating in the air. My chest tightened, a cold sweat forming at the nape of my neck. I reached out, desperate to defuse the situation. “Oli,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I tried to anchor him—and myself. “Please.”
He ignored me, his focus locked on Massimo, who leaned forward ever so slightly, his presence looming. “I’d listen to her, Mr. Thorpe,” Massimo threatened, each word measured and chilling.
Oliver squared his shoulders. “Or what?” The question was a provocation and a warning in one.
Massimo inhaled deliberately, standing to his full imposing height. The room seemed to shrink around us. “Or I will ensure you do.” His gaze pinned Oliver, but I felt the weight of it press against my chest, squeezing.
“Fuck you,” Oliver spat, anger and worry warring on his face. He reached for my arm, voice raw. “Come on, Savy. We’re leaving.”
Massimo’s hand slid behind his back with slow menace. “She stays.” His words were low, growling, and the implication sent a bolt of fear through me. Adrenaline zinged in my veins, my mind racing—should I trust him or run?
I shot to my feet, heart pounding so loudly I was sure they could both hear it. My thoughts tumbled, torn between Oliver’s protectiveness and Massimo’s dangerous insistence. Swallowinghard, I forced my voice calm for Oliver’s sake. “I’ll be fine. Go. You know Kendrick won’t wait long. Just get your things, and I’ll call you tonight when I get home.” I risked a glance at Massimo, trying to read the shadows in his eyes, searching for reassurance but finding only unreadable intent. “I’m sure Mr. Vitale just wants company for dinner. That’s all.”
After saying goodbye to Oliver, I retook my seat and downed my wine in one swallow. The waiter rushed over and quickly refilled my wineglass.
I knew it was going to be a long night.
Chapter Sixteen
Miranda
I woke slowly, groggy and disoriented. The morning sunlight, though faint, sliced through the windows, its brightness nearly blinding me. I blinked, trying to adjust, but the glare only made the ache in my head throb harder. My mouth was parched, each swallow scraping my throat. A dull, persistent pounding echoed in my skull, and a wave of nausea rolled through me, leaving my stomach uneasy and unsettled.
Grumbling, I rolled onto my back, the soft silky sheets gliding over my skin as the faint scent of something familiar tickled the back of my mind. I shifted, each small movement sending fresh shards of pain through my temples. The taste of red wine lingered, bitter and unwelcome.
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, half-expecting to see a string of missed calls or texts. But the screen was empty as the room around me slowly came into focus, every detail sharper and more menacing in the light.
Panic fluttered in my chest as I slowly sat up, hugging the black silk sheets to my chest while I took in my surroundings. The bathroom door opened and out walked Massimo Vitale, fresh as a daisy from his morning shower, a black towel draped low around his waist as water glistened off his pristine, muscular body.
I gulped.
A low, rich voice slid through the quiet. “Good morning, Signora Vitale. I trust you slept soundly. I know I did.” Hiswords carried a teasing edge, every syllable deliberate, almost caressing. The title—Signora Vitale—rang in my ears, foreign and heavy.
I shivered as the cool air brushed my bare arms.
“Signora?” The word barely escaped me, thin as breath, as I glanced down at my left hand. My world tipped, my vision blurred, and for a moment everything stilled—except for the cold, unmistakable weight pressing against my ring finger. My heart thudded, frantic.
“No.” My voice trembled, lost.
Massimo’s smirk widened as his towel fell to the floor with a careless flick. He moved with leisurely confidence, crossing to the armoire, his nakedness almost ceremonial, displaying a power that pressed at the edges of the room. “Oh yes, Miranda. You proved remarkably adventurous last night. I admit, I was quite impressed.”
His words slithered in, muddled and sharp. My thoughts splintered, each scrambling for meaning.Adventurous? Last night?I tried to remember, but everything after Oliver’s departure was a fog of color and sound. My mouth dried further, the taste of panic bitter and electric at the back of my tongue. “What?” The question came out broken, thin. I shrank into the sheets, desperate for answers. “Where... where did you hear that name?”
He paused, drawing out the silence. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the damp air, and the click of a drawer sounded impossibly loud. “Which name, wife?” His gaze sharpened, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You have so many, it is hard to keep track.”
My head pounded, thoughts fracturing. “Miranda.”
The syllables were all I could manage, a lifeline in the chaos.
He slipped into boxer briefs with unhurried precision, every motion deliberate. “That is your legal name, yes? MirandaRoxanne Williams-Franks, not Savannah Scott. Yet, neither is your birth name, is it? You have layers of secrets, wife—so much so, you seem adrift within them. Shall I enlighten you with your truth, wife?”
His words were silk wrapped around steel, each revelation a threat.
My pulse spiked. The word—wife—echoed, loud and mocking, battering at my defenses. “Stop... calling me that!”
I clutched the sheet tighter, the fabric rough beneath my fingers.
