Still, hesitation wasn’t in my nature.
I replied immediately, confirming my availability and requesting urgency.
I hit send.
Watched the confirmation appear on the screen.
I needed to go to São Paulo.
And a short, bitter smile crossed my face at the thought.
Valentina was going to hate that.
THIRTY-FOUR
VALENTINA FERRARA
I sat on the edge of the bed, watching Clara sleep.
She was finally resting after the exhaustion of those infernal days.
First the wedding. Then the move. And the first days living under the same roof as Enrico had been no less brutal than the two that came before the disaster that was our marriage.
Every soft rise and fall of my daughter’s chest was a painful reminder of the absurd situation we were trapped in now.
The last nameFerrarafelt heavy on my tongue. Like an anvil.
There was nothing left of the happiness or love I had once dreamed of having with him.
Every sharp exchange with Enrico in those first days, every provocation, every challenge—I knew exactly what they were.
Survival.
It was the only way. The only way I could still feel something that resembled control over my own life.
And yet, with every lingering look we shared, every time he invaded my personal space, every time his eyes dropped tomy lips or his hands clenched and released in an obvious loss of control, I felt myself slipping further from that illusion of control.
I looked around the bedroom—luxurious, elegant, impersonal—and couldn’t stop thinking about how far this reality was from the life I had once imagined for Enrico and me.
With a euphoric smile, I took a few steps back, carefully adjusting the position of the picture frame for the fifth time.
Every detail of that penthouse had once mattered too much.
Because this was supposed to be where I would live the happiest days of my life.
Our home.
My heart had raced back then, imagining the stories we would live in that space. The memories we would build together.
I bit my lip, trying to decide if I had finally found the perfect spot for the photo, when an ugly memory surfaced—unexpected and cruel—slowly erasing my smile.
A week earlier, a tabloid headline at a newsstand had caught my eye:
“Billionaire playboy Enrico Ferrara and his new conquest — Cinderella or gold digger?”
The words clung to my mind like poison.
A constant, painful reminder that there were people out there who believed I was nothing more than an opportunist chasing the Ferrara fortune.
