And the fact that he'd remembered my passion for art, that he was providing this based on what I'd told him—it was the first sign he saw me as a person, not just a problem to manage.
"Why?" I asked. "Why give me anything?"
Cesare was putting on his suit jacket, preparing to leave for his meetings. He paused.
"Because a broken wife is useless to me. I need you functional, sane, able to appear in public without falling apart."
Always strategic. Always self-serving. And yet...
"And?" I sensed there was more.
He looked at me for a long moment. "And because you're not the enemy. You're collateral damage. There's a difference."
It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered. It shouldn't matter.
But somehow it did.
He headed toward the elevator. I followed—keeping distance but drawn to understand.
"When will you be back?" The question sounded too domestic, too wife-like.
"Late. Don't wait up." He pressed the elevator button.
"Cesare—"
He turned. Waited.
I didn't know what I wanted to say.Thank you? I hate you? Help me?
"Nothing. Never mind."
The elevator doors opened. Cesare stepped in, then paused.
"Paola. The one week deadline stands. Use this time wisely. Think about what happens next. Make your choice."
The doors closed before I could respond.
Day one. Alone. Six days left.
The silence was overwhelming. No street noise ninety floors up. Just the hum of climate controlled air and my own breathing.
I walked through the penthouse, exploring properly now.
Living room: expensive art—though I could take a closer, disbelieving look at originals I didn’t even know existed—uncomfortable-looking furniture, no personal touches.
Study: as promised, a desk with a top-of-the-line computer, bookshelves filled with business texts and Italian literature. Machiavelli. Dante. Books on strategy and war.
Gym: full equipment, mirrors, punishing and perfect. That explained the hard muscle I’d felt beneath his tux the night before…
Guest rooms: impersonal, unused.
Everywhere I looked I found wealth, control, and emptiness.
This was my life now.
I returned to the study and sat at the desk. Opened the computer—it powered on immediately, no password required for me. He was giving me access. Monitored access, but still.
I could try to email someone. Anna. The police. Anyone.
