I shake my head at her. I am always preparing dinner when we meet. It’s something I have done since she wouldn’t eat a thing.
That’s why I had this beach house built. I wanted us to have a place where we could be normal, where I am not Tristan Kinkaid and she’s not the girl who witnessed her mother’s death and her brother killing their father.
There are only three people who know about this place, finding solace between its walls.
15
VIVIANA
The moment I walk inside the house, my mother wraps me in a hug, and I inhale a long breath to steady myself. Home should be the place you feel most like yourself. In my case, it has always been the place where I’ve had to lock everything deep inside of me, so no genuine emotion slips out.
“My beautiful baby,” she coos. “I’ve made all your favorite foods.”
I smile, knowing my parents love me, but they are also products of their upbringing and circumstances.
Hugging her back, I say, “You didn’t have to.”
She palms my face. “Nonsense. Let me look at you.”
I gulp. Keeping her gaze, I school my features into a neutral expression, hoping that nothing betrays me.
Luckily, my father rounds the corner, enveloping me in a big hug. “I am not letting you leave again. I’ve missed you too much.”
My smile remains plastered on my face even though my insides shudder. His words cause mayhem, broadcasting a deep-rooted fear that on one of these visits, he’ll announce mymarriage and then the walls will close in on me, unable to break free.
Someone from the staff reaches for my suitcase, but my father grabs it and together with my mom, we walk upstairs to my room.
It’s the same as I left it. Peachy, rosy-toned walls, carpeted floor, and immaculate white furniture—innocent like my parents wish to keep me, yet Tristan has dirtied me up, fucking it out of me, one hard thrust at a time, while I loved every moment.
Nothing has changed. Just me. Only thinking about Tristan sends a rush of emotions through me. I’d rather be with him at the beach house, riding Altea, where I can be myself, and there’s no pressure to act a certain way.
“My precious girl,” my father says, looking at me with so much pride.
Guilt strikes me so swiftly and starkly that my breathing becomes labored.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” my mom announces.
“When will Chiara be here?” I ask, and my father’s mood instantly plummets.
“Whenever she sees fit,” he grumbles, and they walk out of my room.
I suppress a sigh at noticing my mother caressing his arm as if he’s the one needing comfort as they amble down the hallway.
Guilt. Guilt. And more guilt tightens the invisible collar around my neck. Even after all these years, they still don’t understand Chiara. But Cato, her husband, embraces that rebellious side, loving her for exactly who she is, giving her so much strength that she does not give a damn how others perceive her.
It must feel cathartic to her. And I am all for that.
Alone in my room, I pace, breathing in and out in a soothing rhythm. One weekend. I can do this.
My parents love me, I remind myself. Love me so much because I am a dutiful daughter. I am too chicken to crumble their expectations.
When I think I have my facial expression trained not to betray anything, I walk toward my Nonna’s room. Poking my head inside, not to wake her up in case she’s napping, she welcomes me with a heartfelt smile.
I rush to her, dropping to my knees as we hug.
“Mybella figlia. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too, Nonna.”
