When we passed in the hallway, his hand would twitch toward me before he yanked it back, a low growl of frustration escaping under his breath.
The accidental brush of his fingers against my arm sent unwanted heat curling low in my stomach.
My breath caught. Adrenaline surged.
Fear followed instantly—because this was the same man who had vowed to tear my womb from me if I ever carried his child.
And when our eyes met across any space, the conflict in his gaze was unmistakable: pure loathing for the weakness I represented in him.
He would clench his jaw until it looked painful, then force himself to look away, as if even acknowledging me cost him something vital.
He despised himself for it.
And I was learning to fear how much I noticed.
I descended the grand staircase slowly, each step calculated to hide the slight limp I couldn’t fully mask.
My hands brushed lightly against the railing, not for support, but for control—something to ground me as I moved through the house like I belonged in it.
Like I wasn’t just... passing through.
Normally, by now, someone would have shown up.
A soldier—silent, efficient—assigned to drive me to the academy.
He never allowed the same driver to take me twice.
Vincenzo saw to that, as though even the smallest familiarity was too much freedom for me.
They kept their distance in every way.
In words. In glances.
And I never asked why.
Because I didn’t want to understand the rules of his world.
But today—
No one appeared.
No footsteps followed me.
No voice called out.
No “Signora” echoing through the hallway.
Just silence.
I frowned slightly as I reached the open garage doors.
Rows of vehicles stretched before me—sleek black sedans lined in perfect order, armored SUVs standing like silent guards, a matte-gray Lamborghini that looked less like a car and more like something built for war.
Nothing moved.
No driver. No escort.
No explanation.
