“We won’t be commenting right now,” he announced, voice calm, authoritative, convincing. “We wanted to keep this moment private. Please respect our privacy.”
The irony nearly made me laugh.
This was exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he planned. And it was unfolding precisely as scripted.
Once we were inside the mansion—away from the lenses and the noise—my posture finally cracked.
“Happy now?” I asked, bitterness heavy in my voice. “You got what you wanted. Again.”
Enrico’s expression dropped the instant the door closed. The warmth evaporated like it had never existed.
“It was necessary, Valentina,” he said flatly. “Don’t start with the drama.”
I drew a shaky breath, trying to keep my rage from spilling out, when André appeared with a phone in his hand. His face was controlled, efficient—like he was reporting a completed transaction.
“It’s done,” he said.
Enrico nodded once, then looked at me again. His tone went even colder, more business than ever.
“We need to reinforce the story immediately.” His eyes darkened, calculating. “You and Clara are moving into my house today.”
My heart stopped.
A freezing shock raced down my spine.
“What?” My voice came out thin, tremoring. “What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer, gaze locked on mine.
“Investors are demanding perfection,” he said. “Newlyweds live together. It’s simple.”
A brittle, disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“Simple?” I snapped. “You’re telling me to uproot my daughter and move her under the same roof as you—without warning, without thinking about what it does to her?”
He didn’t react. Not even a flicker.
“My daughter?” he repeated, one eyebrow lifting. “Our daughter.” His voice sharpened. “And you should be thanking me for treating you with more mercy than you ever showed me. You kept her. You kept your life with her. I didn’t get that privilege. I didn’t even know she existed.”
I took a step back, shaking my head slowly, dread and fury twisting together.
“One day, Enrico,” I said, voice low and shaking with truth, “you’re going to realize how cruel you’ve been. How unfair. And it’ll be too late.” I lifted my chin. “Because I will never forgive you.”
He didn’t even acknowledge it.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “It’s decided. My home is prepared. Clara will be taken care of. I suggest you make this easier.”
Hot tears threatened—rage and despair, clawing up my throat.
“And if I refuse?” I asked, hating how small the question sounded compared to the size of what he was doing to me.
Enrico smiled.
But it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Do you really want to find out?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
