"Zoe has her own mind," Damiano says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "She can do whatever she wishes."
"In certain settings, perhaps," Byron responds, signaling for the server to pour wine. "But a woman of her position must understand when discretion is appropriate. I've taught her well."
My chest tightens as I watch this power play unfold. Byron is deliberately provoking Damiano, using my supposed submission as bait. It's working. I can see the muscle ticking in Damiano's jaw, the tightening of his knuckles around his wine glass.
Yet beneath my calculated façade, genuine hurt bubbles up. Regardless of audience, Byron has always treated me like this—a project to perfect rather than a person to respect. Damiano's defense, however self-serving, highlights just how demeaning Byron's treatment truly is.
The first course arrives—lobster bisque that smells divine but turns my stomach. I lift my spoon, careful to follow every rule of etiquette Byron drilled into me.
"I've arranged for photos at the charity gala next week," Byron says, addressing Damiano. "Zoe will wear the sapphire set. It complements her coloring beautifully."
"We'll make our own decisions about appearances," Damiano replies flatly.
Byron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You'll find Zoe performs exquisitely when properly instructed. She's been trained to follow direction."
Something dangerous flashes across Damiano's face. He sets his spoon down with deliberate control.
"We're leaving." Damiano's voice leaves no room for argument. He stands, placing his napkin beside his barely-touched soup.
"We've hardly begun dinner," Byron protests.
"I've lost my appetite." Damiano moves behind my chair. "Zoe?"
I hesitate, torn between Byron's expectations and Damiano's command. In this moment, Damiano offers escape from Byron's suffocating control, even if it's only exchanging one cage for another.
"Of course," I say, rising from my chair.
I storm out of Byron's house ahead of Damiano. The cool night air hits my face as I step outside, but it does nothing to calm the fire burning inside me. I don't wait for Damiano. I yank open the door and slide into the passenger seat.
Damiano follows shortly after, his movements controlled and precise as he starts the engine. We drive in silence for several minutes, tension filling the space between us. I stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, my thoughts racing.
"Are you okay?" Damiano finally asks, his deep voice breaking through the silence.
The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected concern from him. I turn to study his profile, the strong jaw, the intensity in his eyes as he focuses on the road.
"Why do you care?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Because you look like you're about to shatter that window with your bare hands." There's no mockery in his tone, just observation.
Something breaks loose inside me. "He treats me like I'm some kind of doll," I say, the truth spilling out unchecked. "Something to be handled, positioned, instructed. Like I don't have thoughts or feelings of my own."
Damiano remains silent, listening.
"Years of 'Sit up straight, Zoe.' 'Don't speak unless spoken to, Zoe.' 'Remember your training, Zoe.'" I mimic Byron's condescending tone. "And you—if you thought you were defending me back there, congratulations. You've just proven you're as much of an asshole as he is."
Damiano's knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. "How's that?"
"You weren't standing up for me. You were marking your territory." I turn fully toward him now, my voice rising. "I'm not Byron's possession, and I'm not yours either. I'm tired of men deciding how I should be handled."
I realize I've said too much, revealed too much genuine feeling. This wasn't part of the plan. But in this moment, I don't care. The words feel true coming out of my mouth, even if they weren't part of my script.
Damiano pulls the car over to the side of the road and turns to face me. His dark eyes search mine, and for a second, I think I see something besides the cold calculation I've come to expect.
"You're right," he says finally, the words dropping between us like stones in still water. "You're not a possession.You shouldn't be treated like you don't matter or like you're just something to be owned."
I blink, surprised by his concession. This isn't what I expected from him.
"But," he continues, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous, "don't ever compare me to another man. Not to Byron. Not to anyone." His eyes burn into mine. "Not even if it's God himself."
