Then I moved.
Fast.
I yanked open the closet doors and reached inside, grabbing whatever my hands landed on first.
My movements were sharp, almost angry—like I could physically outrun the memory of that bottle, that scent, that moment.
Long black lounge pants.
Soft. Loose.
An oversized charcoal hoodie followed—thick, heavy fabric that swallowed me whole.
One of dozens of pieces Chiara had insisted I take on the second day of this sham marriage.
Chiara — the head chef.
He had personally asked her to escort me to that exclusive boutique overlooking the hills of Lombardy.
I still remembered walking in with nothing but the clothes on my back and a knot of unease in my stomach.
No money. No power. Just me.
I walked out with armfuls of bags.
Silk blouses that whispered against my skin. Cashmere sweaters softer than anything I’d ever owned. Tailored jackets that made me look like I belonged.
And lingerie — delicate, expensive, and utterly unwanted.
All of it already paid for.
Vincenzo had handled everything behind the scenes.
He’d simply told them: “Let her take whatever she wants.”
One of the few mercies he’d ever shown me.
Or maybe it wasn’t mercy at all.
Maybe it was just another form of control — dressing me up like a doll that belonged to him.
Marking me.
Making sure I looked the part of the wife he owned.
I slid the hoodie on. Zipped it all the way to my chin.
Pulled the sleeves down until they covered my hands.
The fabric wrapped around me like armor.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror.
And for a moment—I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
Scarred.
Not just on the skin. But in the eyes.
