My breath comes in short pants, my ribs still sore.
The French doors open again, and Luca appears, his expression darkening when he sees me pressed against the wall.
“What are you doing out here alone?” His voice carries an edge of anger. “I told you not to wander off.”
I blink at him, hoping he doesn’t see the fear on my face. “I–I was talking to Natasha Torrino. She left a minute ago.”
His eyes flare. “What did she say to you?” he demands.
I swallow. “That your enemies will see me as a weakness. That being engaged to you makes me a target.” I meet his eyes, letting him see my fear and fury. “Is she right?”
Luca’s expression shutters, becoming unreadable.
He closes the distance between us in three strides, his hand gripping my elbow—not painfully, but firmly enough to remind me who’s in control.
“We’re leaving,” he says, guiding me toward the doors with inexorable force.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Is his silence an answer though?
“We’ll discuss this in the car.”
But we don’t discuss it in the car. Luca sits in rigid silence during the forty-minute drive back to the estate, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the passing city lights.
I don’t push—partly because I’m afraid of his response, and partly because I already know the answer.
Yes, I’m a target.
Yes, I’m a liability.
Yes, my very existence puts both of us in danger.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Back at the estate, Luca walks me to my suite without a word. When we reach my door, he finally speaks.”
“Everything Natasha told you is true,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless. “You are a target. My enemies will look for ways to exploit you, to use you against me. That’s why you remain locked in this estate and why your movements are monitored. It’s why I control every aspect of your life.”
“So I’m not just your prisoner,” I say bitterly. “I’m also bait for every criminal in Chicago who wants to hurt you. You’ve made me a target and given me no way to defend myself.”
He’s unbothered by my words. “You’re a necessary component of a larger strategy.” He reaches past me to unlock the door, and the scent of his cologne makes my traitorous body respond despite my hatred. “What you are to me personally is irrelevant.”
The words shouldn’t hurt. I know he doesn’t care about me. I know I’m nothing but a tool in his revenge against my father. But hearing him confirm it so coldly still fucking hurts. I hate him, but it still stings to know my life means nothing to him.
“Get some rest,” he continues, opening the door. “You performed adequately tonight, but there’s room for improvement.”
Adequately. Like I’m an employee receiving a performance review rather than a human being he's holding captive.
I walk into my prison without another word, listening to the lock click behind me with its now-familiar finality.
The beautiful gown that cost a fortune suddenly feels like a costume from a play I never auditioned for, like a uniform marking me as Luca’s property.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect jewelry, perfect everything.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger, a carefully constructed fiction designed to serve Luca Marchetti’s purposes.
Something inside me snaps.
I reach back and yank at the zipper, not caring when I hear the delicate mechanism catch and tear.
