“Oh, but first we need to plan the move itself!” I interrupt, already three steps ahead in my mental planning. The logistics are going to be fascinating to organize. “I’ll need to coordinate everything properly. The packing, the cleaning, the redecoration. We can’t just throw our things in boxes like common people. Everything must be carefully wrapped and labeled and arranged in the new house exactly as it should be.”
I start making lists in my head, categorizing our possessions by room and importance. It’s going to be a beautiful melding of two homes into one.
The good china will need special acid-free boxes, Carlo’s suits will require cedar-lined garment bags to protect them from moths, my book collection will need to be organized by subject and author before being packed in climate-controlled containers. It’s going to be a magnificent project, the kind of domestic challenge I was born to tackle.
“We’ll need the very best professional movers, obviously,” I continue, my excitement building with each detail. “Not just any company, but specialists who understand how to handle valuable items. I know a firm that moves art collections for museums. They have temperature-controlled trucks and insurance policies worth millions.”
The more I think about it, the more perfect it becomes. Every detail falling into place like pieces of an intricate puzzle that’s been waiting years to be assembled.
“And we’ll need to throw a housewarming party, won’t we? Nothing too elaborate for the first one, just close friends and family. Dario and Molly, obviously, and Nicolo and Liam if they’re not too busy with their own wedding plans. Maybe thirty or forty people, with proper catering and flowers from that divine shop in Mayfair that creates arrangements that look like living sculptures.”
I can already see it unfolding in my mind like a scene from the most beautiful movie ever made. Elegant people in beautiful clothes wandering through our perfect home, admiring our taste and commenting on how well we’ve done for ourselves. Carlo looking handsome and proud in a perfectly tailored dinner jacket as he shows off our accomplishments, his arm around my waist as we accept congratulations on our marriage and our new life together.
“The menu will need to be carefully planned,” I continue, already mentally composing the perfect balance of flavors and textures. “Nothing too heavy, but substantial enough to satisfy your business friends. Perhaps that divine lamb with rosemary and garlic that everyone always raves about, and a selection of fresh seafood for the ladies who are watching their figures. And we’ll need vegetarian options too, of course, because everyone has dietary restrictions these days.”
Carlo reaches for me again, his movements gentle but insistent, like he’s trying to anchor me to something. “Ginni, please. Stop for just a moment.”
But I can’t stop. The words keep pouring out of me like champagne from a shaken bottle, effervescent and unstoppable. Everything is so clear, so perfectly planned, so absolutely meant to be. It’s like the universe has finally aligned all the stars in exactly the right configuration.
“And we’ll need to establish proper traditions, won’t we? Sunday dinners with all the family, holiday celebrations that become legendary, anniversary parties that people talk about for years afterward. I want our home to be the kind of place where everyone feels welcome, where love is so obvious that it fills every room like the most beautiful perfume.”
I grab Carlo’s hands in mine, squeezing them with all the excitement and joy bubbling up inside me like the finest Italian prosecco. His skin is warm and real and perfect against mine.
“We could have a different theme for each anniversary,” I continue, the ideas cascading over each other in my eagerness to share them all. “The first year could be paper, so we’ll do everything in beautiful handmade papers from Japan. The second year is cotton, so maybe a garden party with white linens and cotton flowers. By the time we reach our silver anniversary, we’ll have created so many beautiful memories that people will beg us to write a book about entertaining.”
His expression is so tender, so full of something that might be love or might be concern or might be both. But it doesn’t matter because we’re here, we’re together, we’re married, and our whole beautiful future is spread out before us like the most magnificent feast imaginable.
“And the children will help us plan the parties when they’re old enough,” I add, spinning another beautiful thread into the tapestry of our future. “They’ll learn proper hospitality from watching us, and by the time they’re adults, they’ll be the most sought-after hosts in all of London. People will compete for invitations to events planned by the Benedetti children.”
The name sounds so perfect, so right. Our children will be Benedettis, carrying Carlo’s name and my love into the future like the most precious gifts.
“It’s all going to be perfect,” I whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. Carlo tastes like morning and possibility and everything beautiful I’ve ever dreamed of. “Everything is going to be absolutely perfect.”
And it is. It has to be. Because I’ve planned it all so carefully, down to the smallest detail, and nothing in the world is going to stop us from having our happily ever after.
Nothing at all.
Chapter nineteen
Carlo
Iwake slowly, consciousness drifting back like fog lifting from still water. The projector above us is displaying a perfect tropical sunrise, all golden light and gentle waves lapping at pristine sand. For a moment I’m disoriented, unsure if it’s actually morning or if this is just another of Ginni’s carefully curated atmospheres designed to make captivity feel like paradise.
There are no clocks down here, no natural light to mark the passage of time. Only eternal artificial light punctuated by whatever scenes Ginni chooses to paint across our ceiling. It could be dawn or midnight for all I know. Time has become meaningless in this beautiful basement prison.
Ginni is curled against my side, using my chest as his pillow in the way that’s become our nightly ritual. His breathing is deep and even, peaceful in a way that makes something twist in my chest. After yesterday’s manic episode, the frantic planning and excited chatter about our future, he looks almost fragile in sleep.
The silk shorts he wore to bed have ridden up slightly, and his crop top has shifted to reveal more skin than it should.
Even unconscious, even after everything he’s put me through, he’s still impossibly beautiful. Dark hair falling across his face, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, lips slightly parted in sleep.
He looks so young like this. Too young to have planned and executed something as elaborate as my abduction. Too young to have endured conversion therapy. Too young to carry the kind of trauma that breeds the particular madness I witnessed yesterday.
The memory of his excitement makes my stomach clench with worry. The way his words tumbled over each other, the manic energy crackling around him like electricity, the brittle edge underneath all that joy. Something is fundamentally wrong with Ginni, something deeper than obsession or romantic delusion.
I’m contemplating this, trying to make sense of the beautiful, broken boy who’s somehow become my husband, when I hear it.
Footsteps on the stairs.
