The house is perfect.
Not just the decor, though I’ve spent days making sure every detail is exactly right. Fresh flowers in crystal vases, candles at precisely the correct height to create ambiance without overwhelming the conversation, table linens pressed to mathematical perfection. Everything arranged with the kind of dedicated attention to beauty that I bring to all my favorite projects.
But it’s more than that. It’s the warmth filling every room, the sound of laughter drifting from the sitting room where Carlo is entertaining the first of our guests, and the knowledge that this elegant space is ours. Really ours. Home in a way I never thought I’d have.
My dreams of Carlo and I choosing a house together were unnecessary. I fit perfectly here, and there is something magical about that.
I smooth my hands down the front of my sapphire silk shirt, the one that makes my eyes look like jewels, and check my reflection in the hallway mirror one more time. I want to look perfect tonight. For Carlo, for our friends, for this beautiful life we’re building together.
It’s been three months since the rescue. Three months of healing and learning to trust that this is real, that I’m not going to wake up in that prison cell and find it was all another delusion. Carlo has been endlessly patient with my fears and my nightmares. I’ll never get tired of him holding me close and whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
This house helps. It’s so much bigger than the basement, with proper windows and natural light and rooms I can wander through whenever I need space. There is a lovely room to paint in and my art has never flowed so freely through my fingers.
Carlo says I can go out soon, once we sort out a proper disguise and maybe some documents that don’t have my real name. For now, though, I’m happy to stay here in our beautiful sanctuary.
The police won’t look for me here, in Carlo’s home. They have no idea that we are connected. They have no reason to look for marriage records. And if they somehow find the connection… well, Carlo has contacts that can make it all go away.
I may be a wanted criminal, but I’m safe. And I get to host dinner parties.
The sound of voices grows louder as the last of our guests arrive. Everyone is here now.
Dario and Molly, Nicolo and Liam, even Dante who rarely socializes but who agreed to make an exception for our first official dinner party. Our chosen family, gathering to celebrate the fact that Carlo and I survived everything the world threw at us and came out the other side stronger.
Of course, none of them know that I kept Carlo chained to my bed for two weeks. Carlo wishes to keep it a special secret just forus, and that’s just fine by me. A pretty version of events, where he courted me as he always should have, is a lovely setting for our love story.
I slip into the kitchen to check on the final preparations. The canapés are arranged on silver platters with the kind of geometric precision that makes my heart sing. Prosciutto-wrapped figs, truffle-infused crostini, delicate salmon roses that took me hours to perfect. Each one a tiny work of art.
“Need a hand with anything?”
I turn to find Liam standing in the doorway, looking elegant in charcoal gray, his engagement ring catching the light as he gestures toward the platters.
“No, thank you,” I say, adjusting the angle of a garnish that was already perfect. “Everything’s under control.”
Liam steps further into the kitchen, his expression shifting to something more serious. “How are you doing, Ginni? Really doing?”
The question catches me off guard. Not the words themselves, but the genuine concern behind them. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking about.
Prison.
I feel my chest tighten with something that might be gratitude. Of all the people in that sitting room, Liam is the only one who truly understands what those concrete walls can do to a person. He spent five years locked away, five years of surviving in a place designed to break people into smaller and smaller pieces.
“It was only a week,” I say with a casual shrug. “I could never have survived five years like you did.”
Liam gives me a rueful smile that speaks of hard-won wisdom. “I’m not sure I did survive. Not the person I was before, anyway.”
The quiet honesty in his voice makes me shiver. I think about the man I was a few months ago, so desperate for lovethat I thought kidnapping someone was a reasonable romantic gesture. So convinced that dramatic tragedy was the only way to preserve something beautiful.
That person feels like a stranger now. Someone I used to know but can barely understand.
“I’m so very lucky I have Carlo,” I whisper, more to myself than to Liam. “A wonderful man who came to rescue me.”
“You are,” Liam agrees gently.
Before I can respond to that, he continues with what sounds like practiced casualness.
“Molly and I have lunch every Wednesday. We talk nonsense and practice our awful Italian. It would be nice if you joined us sometime. We could definitely use the help of a native speaker.”
I just stare at him.
