Valentina stood still a moment longer, like she had more words burning inside her mouth.
Then she turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to echo through the entire house.
I sat in silence, staring at the closed door as my pulse slowed.
Her hostility—her pain—was exactly what I wanted her to feel.
And yet the satisfaction drained the moment I was alone, replaced by something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
A discomfort that had no name.
TWENTY-NINE
ENRICO FERRARA
The dining table was flawless.
Expensive china. Polished silver. Crystal glasses that caught the light like cut ice. The staff had followed my instructions with precision: three place settings, arranged perfectly. Not a single detail out of alignment.
I walked into the dining room with the calm authority of a man who owned the space—who owned the house. I took my seat at the head of the table with deliberate composure, casting an indifferent glance at the two empty chairs across from me.
Minutes passed.
Valentina didn’t appear.
Clara didn’t appear.
My jaw tightened as the room stayed empty, the silence stretching just long enough to feel like defiance. Anger moved under my ribs like something restless, looking for a way out. I made an impatient gesture to one of the maids standing discreetly by the door.
“Go tell Mrs. Valentina and my daughter that dinner is served,” I said. “Tell them I’m waiting.”
“Yes, Mr. Ferrara,” she replied with a small nod and hurried out.
I stayed rigid in my chair, tapping my fingers against the table—steady, controlled, irritating even to my own ears. A few minutes later, the maid returned, hesitating, eyes lowered. Her discomfort made the message obvious before she spoke.
“Mr. Ferrara… Mrs. Valentina asked me to tell you that Clara has already eaten and is asleep.”
My brows pulled together instantly.
Already eaten?
My daughter had been in this house less than a day, and I was already being cut out of something as basic as dinner?
“Asleep,” I repeated, my voice dropping into something dangerously quiet.
The maid swallowed, clearly regretting being the messenger.
“Yes, sir. She was tired.”
My jaw clenched harder.
“Very well,” I said slowly, control held together by sheer force. “Then tell my wife I’m waiting for her.”
The maid nodded quickly and disappeared again.
More minutes passed.
Each second fed my impatience until it felt like heat under my skin.
