This is perfect. Absolutely, utterly perfect.
I microscopically adjust the lap tray one more time, making sure everything is positioned just so. The white linen cloth drapes elegantly over the sides, the crystal wine glasses catch the candlelight like captured stars, and the spaghetti bolognese is plated with the kind of artistic precision that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep with envy.
Carlo is sitting up properly for the first time in days, his restraints loosened enough to allow him full use of his hands and arms. I know it’s a risk, that he could try something, but after this afternoon I think we’ve moved past that particular concern. The chains are still there, still secure, but there’s enough slack now for him to eat like a civilized person instead of being fed like a child.
I miss the intimacy of feeding him, if I’m being honest. The way he would open his mouth for me, trusting and compliant, the soft sounds of appreciation he’d make when I got the flavorsjust right. But this is different, special in its own way. More like a real dinner date, the kind of romantic evening I’ve dreamed about for years.
The projector above us displays a perfect Parisian evening, complete with the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance and couples strolling hand in hand along the Seine. The artificial starlight mingles with the glow from the dozen candles I’ve placed around the room, creating an atmosphere that’s pure romance. If I close my eyes and listen carefully, I can almost hear accordion music drifting on the evening air.
Earlier today, Carlo had a breakthrough. He admitted he was stupid for denying his love for me, and now we are having dinner in Paris. Our honeymoon really is turning out to be spectacular. I can’t wait to tell our grandchildren all about it every Christmas. They will groan and pretend they think it’s boring, but secretly they will cherish it. A tale of true love, to inspire them to find their own special person.
“This is incredible,” Carlo says, twirling another forkful of pasta with the kind of focused concentration that tells me he’s genuinely enjoying the meal. “The sauce is perfect. How long did it take you to make this?”
“About four hours,” I admit, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “I started the base this morning with real San Marzano tomatoes, then added the meat and let it simmer all afternoon. My nonna’s recipe, but I added my own touches. A splash of aged balsamic, some fresh basil from the herb garden upstairs, and just a hint of dark chocolate to deepen the flavor.”
Carlo makes an appreciative sound that goes straight to my heart. There’s something so satisfying about cooking for someone who truly appreciates the effort, who understands that food is love made visible and tangible.
“And this bread,” he continues, tearing off another piece of the crusty sourdough I baked yesterday. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”
“YouTube, mostly,” I laugh, delighted by his obvious enjoyment. “And a lot of trial and error. I wanted to be able to make everything you love from scratch, not just order it from restaurants or buy it pre-made. This loaf took me six attempts to get right, but I think it was worth it.”
“Definitely worth it.” He reaches for his wineglass, taking a sip of the Burgundy Pinot Noir I selected from the cellar. His expression shifts to something approaching awe as the complex flavors hit his palate. “Christ, this is excellent. This is really, really good wine. Where did you get this?”
I can’t help the mischievous smile that spreads across my face. “I stole it from my father’s wine cellar. It was in the safe, along with some other bottles he was saving for special occasions.”
Carlo goes completely still, his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he starts coughing, nearly choking on his spaghetti as my words sink in.
“Ginni!” he gasps when he finally catches his breath. “This could cost hundreds of thousands of pounds! Your father is going to notice it’s missing!”
I shrug. “You’re worth it, my love. Besides, Papa never drinks the really good stuff anyway. He just likes having it to show off to his business associates. Most of those bottles have been sitting there for years, gathering dust.”
“And if he does notice?” Carlo asks, though there’s something almost fond in his voice now, like he’s talking to a particularly reckless child who’s just admitted to stealing cookies.
“Then I’ll tell him I drank it to celebrate my new life with my soulmate,” I say simply, taking a delicate sip of the wine myself. The flavors are extraordinary, complex and layered with hintsof cherry and tobacco and earth. “Some things are worth any amount of trouble, don’t you think?”
Carlo stares at me across the candlelit space between us, something soft and complicated flickering in his dark eyes. For a moment, the basement fades away entirely. The restraints, the circumstances that brought us here, the complicated reality of our situation all disappear. There’s just us, sharing a perfect meal by candlelight, the warm glow making everything feel golden and magical.
This is what I’ve always wanted. Not the kidnapping, not the chains, just this. A quiet evening with the man I love, talking and laughing over good food and excellent wine. The kind of simple domestic happiness that other people take for granted but has always felt impossibly out of reach for someone like me.
But then something flickers at the edges of my vision. A flutter of uncertainty, like a candle flame disturbed by an unexpected breeze.
Carlo isn’t here willingly. He’s my captive, not my loving husband. This isn’t a romantic dinner date, it’s just another day in his captivity. The wine was stolen, the setting is artificial, and none of this is real no matter how desperately I want it to be.
The image stutters and jumps like a broken film reel. One moment I see my loving husband, learning to accept the wonderful truth between us, his eyes soft with affection as he savors the meal I’ve prepared with such care. The next moment I see my unwilling captive, playing along with my delusions because he has no choice, probably planning his escape the moment my guard drops.
Which one is real? Which Carlo am I looking at right now?
The uncertainty makes me dizzy, makes the candlelight seem too bright and the artificial Paris skyline feel oppressive rather than romantic. My hands start to shake, just slightly, and I have to set down my wine glass before I drop it.
Focus, I tell myself. Send the bad thoughts away. This is real. This is good. This is what we both want, even if he’s not quite ready to admit it yet.
But the doubts keep creeping in, insidious and persistent. What if I’m wrong? What if this afternoon’s breakthrough was just him telling me what I wanted to hear? What if he’s still planning to leave the moment he gets the chance?
The room starts to feel smaller, the walls pressing in despite the projected Parisian vista. My breathing becomes shallow, rapid, the kind of panicked gulping that never brings enough air to my lungs.
“Ginni?”
The voice seems to come from very far away, even though I know he’s sitting right across from me. I blink hard, trying to clear the static from my vision, trying to make sense of the concerned expression on Carlo’s face.
