Cesare followed. Stood behind me. Close, but not touching. Waiting.
"My father disowned me today," I said quietly. "And I feel... relieved."
"Why relieved?"
I turned to face him. He was still in the clothes from this morning—shirt and pants wrinkled, hair disheveled from running his hands through it. The armor cracked enough to show the man underneath.
"Because I'm free. He has no power over me anymore." I stepped closer, closing the distance between us. "I chose this. I chose you."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened, then intensified. His hands came up, framing my face with unexpected gentleness despite the calloused roughness.
"You want to know who you are after today?" His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "You're the woman who walked awayfrom her father with dignity. Who made hard choices and lived with them. Who's stronger than anyone realizes."
The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. I couldn't look away.
"You're not a victim, Paola. Not a sacrifice. You're a survivor." He paused, gray eyes searching mine. "My survivor."
"Your survivor," I repeated, testing the words on my tongue.
"My wife. My partner." Another pause, heavier with meaning. "Mine."
The possessiveness should bother me. In any other context, from any other man, it would.
But I realized something: I was his. And he was also mine. The claiming went both ways.
"I need to shower," I said, voice rough. "I can still feel that meeting on me. My father's study. The lies. All of it. I need it off."
"Okay."
I started toward the bedroom, then paused. Looked back at him.
"Will you..." I stopped, struggling for words. "I don't want to be alone right now."
Understanding flashed in his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."
The bathroom was all marble and glass—luxury that used to intimidate me. Now it was just home. My space. Ours.
I started the shower. Multiple heads activated, steam instantly filling the space. The mirrors fogged as I stripped off my clothes—the outfit I'd worn to meet my father for the last time.
I stepped under the water, let it cascade over me. Hot enough to redden my skin, to wash away the morning like a baptism.
Cesare joined me moments later. Naked and unguarded. No weapons holstered at his ribs, no tailored suits creating distance. Just skin and scars and the man underneath.
His hands found my waist, pulled me back against him. Solid muscle, steady warmth. We stood like that for long moments—just breathing, just being.
Then I turned in his arms, looking up at him.
Water streamed between us. His dark hair plastered to his head, droplets catching on his eyelashes. He looked younger like this. Almost vulnerable.
"Thank you," I said. "For giving me the choice with my father. For not making the decision for me."
"It wasyourfather. Your choice."
"Most men wouldn't have done that."
"I'm not most men."
"No." I traced the water running down his chest. "You're not."
