The restraints slide off my wrists like they’re barely there, the cuffs so loose now that I could probably have escaped days ago if I’d been trying. All those mornings when Ginni adjusted them with such care, making sure I was comfortable, never realizing he was giving me exactly what I needed to leave him.
It’s embarrassing how easy this is, now that I’ve decided to be free. Just how much of my time here was truly unwilling? It’s a question I already know is going to haunt me forever.
I stumble to the kitchen on unsteady legs, my body protesting after weeks of limited movement. The wine and food go straight down the disposal unit, evidence of Ginni’s beautiful, terrible plan disappearing down the drain in a swirl of red and cream.
A carefully folded note on the counter catches my attention.To Mama, Papa and Marco,is written across it in beautiful calligraphy on thick cream vellum.
I snatch it up, scrunch it up and throw it into the trash.
But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
I need to leave him a note. Something that will stop him from doing anything stupid when he wakes up and finds me gone. Something that will keep him alive long enough for me to figure out how to save him properly.
I find the expensive stationery he used in the kitchen drawer, heavy cream paper with Ginni’s initials embossed in gold. Even his suicide note supplies are elegant.
My hand is shaking as I write.
My beautiful Menace, wait for me. I will come back for you. I promise. This isn’t goodbye. This is me saving us both. I love you. C
I fold the note carefully and place it where he’ll see it immediately when he wakes up. It’s still not enough, not nearly enough to explain everything I’m feeling, but it will have to do.
Clothes. I need clothes. I’ve been naked for so long I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to wear anything, but I can hardly escape through London like this.
The built-in wardrobe is where I expect it to be, taking up most of one wall of the spare bedroom. But when I open the doors, I freeze completely.
It’s full of men’s clothes. Beautiful, perfectly tailored men’s clothes in exactly my size.
Suits from Savile Row, casual wear from Italian designers, everything from formal dinner jackets to comfortable weekend clothes. All of it in my exact measurements, all of it clearly chosen with obsessive attention to style and ways to make me look good.
Back on my first day here, he said he was going to buy me new clothes, but this is extraordinary. How long has he been planning this? How much time did he spend quietly ordering clothes for me, building a wardrobe for the life he imagined we’d have together?
I grab the first things I find. Dark jeans that fit like they were made for me, a soft cashmere jumper in deep blue, expensive leather shoes that somehow manage to be exactly the right size. Even the socks and underwear are perfect, brands I prefer, cuts I find comfortable.
Everything fits flawlessly, because of course it does. Ginni has been studying me for years, cataloguing every detail of my preferences with the same obsessive precision he brings to everything else.
The clothes feel strange after weeks of nakedness, heavy and constricting, but also comforting in their familiarity. Like putting on armor before a battle.
I take one last look at Ginni, peaceful and beautiful in sleep, and something inside my chest tears in half. Leaving him like this feels like abandoning a wounded animal, like turning my back on someone who needs me more than he’s ever needed anyone.
But staying will kill us both. And I can’t save him if I’m dead.
The basement door is locked, but Ginni keeps the key on a hook just inside the kitchen. Of course he does. He never really expected me to make it this far, never imagined I’d actually try to leave.
The stairs feel endless, my legs weak from weeks of limited mobility. By the time I reach the main floor, I’m breathing hard and my heart is racing from more than just exertion.
I’m in the Torrini family home. The place where Ginni grew up, where he learned to hide himself away, where he was taught that love is something to be ashamed of. Every room I pass feels like a mausoleum, all expensive furniture and careful arrangements that speak of wealth but not warmth.
This is what shaped him. This cold, beautiful prison where appearances matter more than happiness, where a son can be hidden away in the basement like a dirty secret rather than loved for who he is.
The front door is solid wood with multiple locks, but none of them are engaged. Why would they be? The Torrinis assume their son will never try to leave.
London air hits my face like a blessing, cool and sharp and full of life. Real air, not the recycled atmosphere of the basement. Real light, not the artificial glow of projectors and screens.
I’ve escaped. After weeks of captivity, I’m finally free.
So why does it feel like I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life?
I walk quickly through Mayfair, keeping my head down, trying to blend in with the early evening foot traffic. Every step takesme further from Ginni, further from the basement that became both prison and sanctuary.
