My eyes shot to Cesar’s, widening as the truth slammed into me like a wrecking ball. It was there all this time, and I never saw it—never even considered it.
The possibility had hovered just out of reach, invisible until now.
Cesar’s jaw clenched, and he stood firm, his posture rigid, as shock flickered across his features, mixing with something darker—revenge, retribution, death. “He fucking knows who she really is.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Miranda
The instant the man stepped forward—stout, broad-shouldered, his features carved into a sneer—I recognized him from the restaurant, the one whose glare had drilled holes into Massimo across the crowded room. His animosity toward Massimo was unmistakable even then, a simmering resentment that now seemed poised to erupt. He was no stranger to Massimo; his hostility was so palpable it lingered in the air.
His predatory eyes swept over me with a leering hunger that made my skin crawl as a cold shiver knifed down my spine. Every instinct screamed danger. The way he licked his lips—slow, deliberate, as if I were a thing to be possessed rather than a person. Beside him, his daughter stood—small, silent, shrinking inward, her gaze glued to her shoes. Her whole body quaked, betraying a terror she could not hide. I followed her hands, wrapped protectively around a small, unmistakable bump. It was clear—she was pregnant, and from the possessive, accusing way her father glared at Massimo and me, I feared what that meant for all of us. The realization lodged in my throat like broken glass, the silent confession between us thrumming with dread.
Then my world shattered when the man—voice booming with triumph and venom—made damn sure every ear heard and declared that Massimo, my husband, was going to be a father. The impact of his words was brutal and absolute, crashing through me with a force that stole my breath and threatened tobuckle my knees. If Oliver hadn’t been at my side—his steady presence the only anchor in the spiraling chaos—I would have collapsed under the weight of disbelief and devastation. The truth was out, raw and merciless, and the consequences rippled out in that tense room, leaving no room for hope or denial.
Through the chaos that erupted around me, my gaze sought out my husband, desperate and pleading for reassurance. I silently begged him to meet my eyes, to tell me that everything being said was a lie, some twisted fabrication born from the spite of an adversary. But Massimo remained distant, refusing to even glance in my direction. His silence spoke volumes, each second stretching unbearably.
Rooted to the spot, I felt paralyzed, my breath caught painfully in my throat as the world around me seemed to blur and collapse. Accusations and regret descended like a choking fog, each hushed conversation and pointed whisper cutting deeper, eroding the foundation of my strength. The suffocating weight of betrayal pressed close, threatening to overwhelm me, yet I found myself unable to move or even cry out. All I could do was withstand the piercing agony of that instant, my soul aching for answers that felt forever out of reach. It was then that Oliver, sensing my despair, reached for my hand and guided me out of the oppressive room, pulling me away from the unraveling devastation.
Oliver became my lifeline in that moment—my saving grace. He was not only my best friend, but the only person I trusted enough to follow without question. When he kept moving, guiding me out of the house and into a waiting car, I didn’t hesitate. I simply followed, letting instinct take over, my only desire to put as much distance between myself and Massimo as possible.
Seated in the back of a limousine, I gazed out at the city shrouded in night, watching as snow swirled and settled,cloaking everything in a pristine blanket. The world outside looked pure and untouched, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about all the hidden secrets lurking beneath that flawless surface. My mind raced with questions that refused to let up. Was everything I believed a lie? Did Massimo even realize he was about to become a father, and if so, did it matter to him at all? Was she someone he genuinely cared for, or just a mistress kept in the shadows? Each question hammered at me relentlessly, leaving me floundering in uncertainty, unable to distinguish truth from deception.
“Savy?”
The sound of Oliver’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, grounding me for a moment in reality. He leaned forward, concern etched into every line of his face, his eyes searching mine for some sign that I was still present, still breathing beneath the crushing shock. I blinked, struggling to focus, letting his quiet strength slowly coax me back from the edge of panic, even as the ache in my chest refused to subside.
Oliver’s voice slipped through the haze of my distress, gentle yet carrying an undertone I didn’t recognize—a mix of determination and something more quietly fierce. “It’s going to be okay. I will take care of everything,” he promised, as the weight of his words settled around me like a heavy, protective cloak.
I turned to him, searching for answers behind the familiar lines of his face—lines shaped by our friendship and new resolve.
“How?” My question trembled from somewhere deep, vulnerable, baring the fear I could no longer hide.
He responded with a confident smirk, reaching out to take my hand with a familiarity that spoke of years, not days. “Trust me,” he simply said, and the hint of a smile softened the hard set of his eyes. His touch was grounding, anchoring me inthis moment—his warmth a quiet reminder that, despite all the chaos, I was not alone.
Yet beneath my trust, uncertainty still twisted; I wondered what drove Oliver so fiercely, what lines he’d crossed for my sake, and whether the cost had ever truly weighed on him.
Time seemed to dissolve in the hush of the limousine, the muted thrum beneath me both comforting and unnerving. Each mile away from the chaos felt surreal—my thoughts flickered between relief and unease, the silence amplifying the tension knotting in my stomach. The faint scent of leather mingled with a trace of Oliver’s cologne, grounding me in the present even as memories of recent heartbreak pressed against my chest. When the car finally slowed, my breath caught, not just in anticipation but in a sudden wave of apprehensive hope—the kind that flares when worlds shift, when the unknown looms ahead.
The property unfurled around me, immense and imposing, the brick-lined fence a silent promise of security that felt both reassuring and intimidating. Snow crunched faintly beneath the restless guards’ boots, their presence a tangible reminder of secrets held close. As the iron gates creaked open—echoing with a metallic groan that lingered in the winter air—the limousine glided forward along a winding road. The trees lining the drive loomed overhead, their branches dripping with icicles, casting shifting shadows that danced in the headlights.
When we stopped before the mansion—a grand stone edifice veined with age and stateliness—I sensed something old lingering in its walls, as though stories and sorrows had seeped into the mortar over generations. There was a faint aroma of woodsmoke and distant pine, mingling with the chill that nipped my skin through the car window.
Leaning forward, I pressed my fingertips against the cool glass, drawn in by the mansion’s quiet majesty and the questions swirling within me. Awe and curiosity mingled with a nervousenergy, my heart pounding as I wondered what lay inside—what memories the estate might awaken, what truths it might reveal. “What is this place?” I whispered, my voice colored by wonder and a fragile sense of longing, as if I recognized the echo of something important, a connection to a past I’d almost forgotten.
Oliver met my gaze and simply replied, “It belongs to a business acquaintance of my dad. I called, and he offered to put you up for the night. Trust me, Vitale won’t come looking for you here.”
Before I could ask anything more, the driver opened the door and extended his hand toward me. Grateful for the gesture, I accepted, letting his steady grasp help guide me out of the limousine. The cold night air greeted me instantly, sharp and bracing against my skin, while snowflakes tumbled softly from the sky, swirling in gentle patterns to settle on my clothes and hair. As I stepped onto the frost-hardened ground, Oliver emerged from the backseat, his presence at my side providing a silent reassurance amid the unfamiliar surroundings.
Oliver slipped his gloved hand into mine once more as we made our way toward the grand front entrance of the mansion. The heavy door swung open before we could even reach it, revealing a figure framed in the warm glow of the interior lights—a man whose face struck a chord of recognition deep within me. He wore a perfectly tailored custom suit, every line and detail emphasizing a stature both commanding and refined. He was older than my memory recalled, his once-dark hair now streaked with dignified threads of silver that only heightened his air of authority. There was something about his appearance—a certain poised danger—that made it clear he was not a man to be underestimated. But it was his eyes, a piercing slate-blue, that held my attention most; they seemed to see straight through me, their intensity unwavering as he took in every detail of myarrival. For a moment, I felt exposed, but then he extended his hand and offered a brief, enigmatic smile. His presence radiated both power and a guarded welcome. “Welcome to my home, Mrs. Vitale. My name is Crispin Sinclair.”
Chapter Thirty
Miranda
“You may leave now Mr. Thorpe. I can assure you, Mrs. Vitale is perfectly safe here,” Mr. Sinclair said, his words polite but carrying an unyielding finality. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Oliver, and his tone softened just enough to hint that there was more behind his insistence—a silent warning or a deeper concern masked beneath the formality.
Oliver frowned, glancing at me with concern before turning to Mr. Sinclair. “I thought I was staying too.” His voice was low, the words edged with uncertainty and protectiveness he couldn’t quite hide.
