“He doesn’t care if I’m afraid,” I say, voice dropping. “He doesn’t care if I’m happy. He doesn’t care who I love, or whether I love anyone at all.” My grip tightens on the blanket. “All that matters to him is what he’s decided my life is worth.”
I’ve stopped pacing. Somewhere between one sentence and the next, my feet planted themselves near the kitchen counter and refused to keep moving, like the weight of what I’m saying won’t let me carry it and walk at the same time.
“My point is, even if your father changes his mind, mine won’t.” I say. “He’s still going through with the engagement. He’s still going to marry me off to the Colombian like none of this matters.”
Luca goes dead still, the kind of stillness that feels violent instead of quiet. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His hands curl slowly against his thighs.
“The hell he is.” The words are practically a growl. “I won’t let him.”
I let out a tired laugh. “How?”
When he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but his hands haven’t uncurled.
“You wouldn’t be on your own,” he says, picking up steam. “We have safe houses. And I can put people on you. Keep you covered. Keep anyone from getting near you.”
“For how long?”
He hesitates.
“A week?” I say. “A month? Long enough for my father to get creative?” My grip tightens on the blanket. “You’re talking about guards, Luca. About hiding me. That is not the same thing as me being free.”
“Nat—”
“You can make it harder for him. More dangerous. More expensive. But as long as he’s alive and in power, he doesn’t stop being my father. He doesn’t stop deciding what happens to me.”
Luca goes still at that.
“Nobody can protect me from him.”
He lets out a long breath and hangs his head. “You’re saying he’ll never stop.”
I don’t answer right away. My chin drops, and it feels like all the fight goes out of me at once.
I look up at Luca then, and I can’t tell whether the pressure behind my ribs is grief or fury or some awful combination of both.
“There’s no clean way away from a man like him,” I whisper.
My eyes burn.
Luca stands. I don’t tell him to sit back down.
“For years,” I say, each word dragged up rough, “I have known, somewhere deep down, that as long as Anton Kozlov is alive, he will keep using me. Reaching for me. For my life. My body. My future.” My throat works around the next part. “And there were nights I lay awake and thought…”
I stop.
My whole body goes tight.
Luca takes one step toward me, slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted to.
I don’t. My pulse jumps anyway.
“What did you think?” he asks quietly.
I close my eyes.
Then I open them again and make myself answer.
“I thought the only way any of this ever really ends,” I whisper, “is if he dies.”
