The weight of Miranda’s words hung over the table, silencing everyone. I could hear only the faint clinking of silverware; the usual sounds of breakfast forgotten. My heart hammered with guilt and regret, yet a part of me instinctively braced against vulnerability—I was terrified of what I might lose. Around the table, Sinclair’s smile faded, and Cesar looked away, visibly shaken. Even Luca’s eyes darted between us, unsettled by the raw honesty spilling into our morning meal. For a moment, we all struggled to comprehend just how deeply Miranda’s pain ran, our world stilled by the force of her confession.
Instinctively, I rose from my seat and kneeled before her, desperately trying to offer comfort. Turning her chair toward me, I gently took her hands and whispered, “You can still have that plan, Miranda. Nothing’s changed.”
But Miranda pulled her hands away, her frustration boiling over. “EVERYTHING’S CHANGED! You keep me holed up in that house. You won’t let me call my family, my friends. School is gone. I’ve lost my place in the program. Someone tried to kill us, and now you have a baby on the way!”
Sinclair glanced at Cesar, and something unspoken passed between them—a silent confirmation of their shared purpose. I realized then that their interventions weren’t just about protecting me from Miranda’s wrath; they were calculated moves, meant to safeguard the family’s reputation and shield me from the fallout of past mistakes. Sinclair’s involvement wasn’t merely amusement at the drama, but a strategic choice: by controlling the narrative, he kept order at the table and maintained his influence. Cesar’s attempts to mediate stemmed from genuine concern, but also from the weight of responsibility he felt for holding our fracturing family together.
Sinclair, observing the emotional chaos, interrupted calmly, “If I may interject here, the child isn’t Massimo’s, my dear.”
Stunned, I stared at Sinclair as I slowly stood, knowing damn well he was lying. “What?” I questioned, wondering what fucking game he was playing. “How in the hell do you know that?”
“Because she was already pregnant when you slept with her.”
Confused and disbelieving, I looked back at Sinclair, whose unwavering stare dared me to dispute his claim. When he held his ground, I glanced at Cesar, who gave a subtle nod of confirmation.
They were lying to protect me. Why? I knew Kate was a virgin when I slept with her. I saw the evidence myself. I hadn’t used protection. The timeline made sense; there was a strong chance I was the father. Yet despite this, they wanted me to accept a lie. I didn’t know how lying to protect me benefited anything, but if it got my wife to trust me again, I would play along.
Sinclair’s voice cut through the tension, calm yet grave. “There are factions at play here, my dear, that I regret to inform you, you’ve stumbled into unwillingly. While your husband is not beyond reproach, his past endeavors will at times come forward and cause problems. But rest assured this matter isresolved.” His words, though meant to reassure, hinted at dangers lurking beneath the surface and the complexity of the situation we now faced.
Cesar’s tone was gentle, but his concern was clear. “Sinclair’s right, sister,” he added. “We would have told you had you not disappeared on us. Your disappearance caused our family a lot of tension last night. I know this life isn’t what you are accustomed to, but for the time being, all I ask is for a little leniency where Massimo is concerned. Like you, this is all new to him.” His words were a plea for patience and understanding, acknowledging the upheaval everyone was experiencing.
I kneeled before Miranda once more, reaching for her hands and pressing gentle kisses to her knuckles, a silent plea for understanding. “I’m sorry,” I whispered earnestly. “Please forgive me. I promise—I’ll try to do better next time.” My words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, hoping to bridge the chasm that recent events had carved between us.
Cesar let out a groan, the strain in his voice clear. “Wrong word choice, brother,” he admonished, shaking his head at my attempt to make amends. His reaction stung, yet it also reminded me of just how delicate the situation was, and how every word seemed to matter more than ever before.
Sinclair’s laughter was soft, almost indulgent. “He’s young. He will learn,” he remarked, his tone carrying a hint of reassurance. There was patience in his words, a recognition that growth often came through these awkward, painful moments.
“Not fast enough,” Cesar grumbled, his irritation barely concealed. The frustration in his voice echoed the tension that still lingered in the room, a sign that wounds were far from healed.
Miranda, finding a moment of levity amid the tension, allowed a sly smile to cross her lips. “Don’t worry, Cesar. I have several brothers who would happily show him the errorof his ways,” she teased. Her words, though playful, carried an undercurrent of warning—and perhaps, a glimmer of hope for reconciliation.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Miranda
I stood just inside the doorway, watching while he moved about the room as if nothing was wrong. He appeared perfectly at ease, each step deliberate, his face a controlled mask betraying nothing of the storm that had only recently passed between us.
But I knew differently.
The second the vehicle pulled away from Mr. Sinclair’s estate, I felt a chill snake its way down my spine and settle deep into my bones. Gone was the polite, concerned, gentle mood from the breakfast table, only to be replaced with tense silence and a threat so real, I could actually taste it. The atmosphere had shifted palpably, tension pressing in around us, leaving me with the undeniable certainty that the calm was only a fragile veneer over something far more volatile.
On the entire ride back, he sat next to me.
Okay, maybe ‘next’ was the wrong preposition. Truthfully, if he had been any closer, he would have been under my skin. The man abandoned all pretense of politeness, opting instead to assert himself with an unmistakable claim. He refused to release my hands, his grip unyielding, one of his palms holding each of mine. Forced to sit at an awkward, uncomfortable angle—certainly not the safest position—I realized he simply didn’t care. He sat there silently, his thumb drawing gentle circles on my wrist, never uttering a word. It was clear he was waiting for privacy, biding his time until we were alone behind closed doorsto say what he would not in front of others. Every time I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened, sending me a clear message that he was not going to let me escape again. So, for an entire hour, I sat in the back seat of the SUV, quiet and captive beside him, his hold never relenting. When the vehicle finally stopped, I expected—hoped—he would finally let go and allow me to leave.
But again, I was mistaken.
Instead of freedom, I was abruptly pulled from the back seat, hoisted over his shoulder with little warning. A sharp sting landed across my backside where his hand had struck, punctuating his announcement to the others: “I’ll be upstairs educating my wife. It might take all night.”
Luca chuckled at the display, and Cesar offered an understanding smile before replying, “Take all the time you need, brother. We have everything handled from here.”
Massimo didn’t wait for a reply. One moment we were still in the parking garage; the next, I was being roughly manhandled—his grip strong and impatient—as he carried me up the stairs. The instant we crossed the threshold into his room, he dropped me onto the floor, then closed the door with a sharp slam before locking it. I watched silently as he strode to his dresser and, with calm precision, removed his watch, wallet, keys, and phone, placing them carefully into the marble bowl atop his dresser.
Massimo’s movements were methodical, each action intentional, as if he needed to collect himself before turning to face me. The silence between us stretched, heavy and expectant, the tension in the room thick enough to feel on my skin. I watched his back, bracing for whatever came next, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
With deliberate movements, he shrugged out of his jacket and let it drop to the floor, as though the very fabric offended him or had become too restrictive to tolerate a moment longer. The urgency in his actions sent a ripple of apprehension throughme. Without pausing, he loosened his tie, slipping it off with a practiced flick of his wrist, and then swiftly unfastened his belt. Each discarded item seemed to shed a layer of the carefully constructed composure he had worn until now. Left in only his fitted black shirt and tailored trousers, he paused just long enough to unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt, exposing a hint of the ink that decorated his throat and collarbone—a subtle yet unmistakable sign of the shift in mood.
He crossed the room with measured steps, choosing the chair by the window rather than the bed, a clear indication that he wished to control the conversation that would follow. Lowering himself into the chair, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and raked both hands through his thick, dark hair in a gesture that spoke of brewing frustration or perhaps an attempt to steady himself. The motion drew my eyes, and as if sensing my gaze, he looked up. When our eyes met, his—stormy and blue as sapphire—held mine without wavering. The intensity in his stare made my breath catch; my throat worked as I swallowed hard, unable to disguise my reaction to the weight of his attention.
