"That's very honest."
"I'm always honest with you. Even when the truth is uncomfortable."
It was true. Matteo had never lied to me. Had never pretended to be something he wasn't. Had never hidden the darkness or the obsession or the possessiveness.
That honesty felt more valuable than any pretty words or empty promises.
"I'm glad I stayed," I said. "Even though it's complicated. Even though Antonio's probably right that I'm in over my head. I'm still glad I chose this. Chose you."
"Even after everything? After I kidnapped you? Kept you locked up?"
"Especially after that." I tilted my head to look at him. "Because you gave me a choice. Eventually. You unlocked the door. Told me I could leave. And when I chose to stay, you didn't take that for granted. You keep checking. Keep making sure I still want this."
"I need to know you're choosing it," he said. "Every day. I need to know this is real and not just you accepting the situation because you have no other options."
"It's real." I kissed him softly. "I'm choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this fucked-up, complicated, probably unhealthy relationship because it makes me feel more alive than anything else ever has."
He kissed me back. Deep and thorough and full of promise.
When we broke apart, he said: "We should clean up. Get some food. You need to eat something after that call."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway." He sat up, pulling me with him. "Come on. Shower. Then food. Then we can come back to bed and I'll hold you while you process everything."
The casual care in his voice made my chest tight.
This was what I'd been missing. What I'd been craving without knowing it. Someone who cared about me beyond what I could do for them. Someone who wanted to take care of me. Someone who saw me as a person instead of a pretty face.
We showered together. Matteo washed my hair with gentle hands. Soaped my body carefully. Pressed kisses to my shoulders and neck. Made me feel precious instead of used.
Afterward, he made me sit at his kitchen table while he cooked. Nothing fancy—just pasta and sauce and garlic bread. But he made it for me. Served it to me. Sat across from me and made sure I ate even though I didn't have much appetite.
"You need your strength," he said when I pushed the food around my plate. "Today was hard. Tomorrow might be harder. Eat."
So I ate. Because he cared enough to insist. Because taking care of me mattered to him.
When we finished, we went back to bed. Matteo pulled me against his chest and held me like he'd promised.
"Talk to me," he said. "About the call. About what you're feeling."
So I did. Told him about the guilt. The grief for the family I'd never really had. The fear about what came next.
He listened. Didn't try to fix it or minimize it. Just held me and let me process.
"You're allowed to grieve," he said eventually. "Even if they didn't deserve you. Even if leaving was the right choice. You're still allowed to grieve the loss."
"I feel guilty for not feeling worse."
"Why?"
"Because they're my family. I should be devastated. Should be desperate to fix this. Should be..." I trailed off. "I don't know. Something other than relieved."
"You're relieved because you've been suffocating for twenty-three years and you finally took a breath." Matteo's voice was gentle. "That's not wrong. That's survival."
Maybe he was right.
Maybe relief was the appropriate response to escaping a cage, even if the cage was lined with gold and called family.
