"It's what it will be." I meet her eyes, letting her see the certainty beneath my words. "Give it time."
"Time." She shakes her head slowly, but she doesn't argue. She's tired. I can see it in the shadows beneath her eyes, deep purple against her olive skin. In the slight slump of her shoulders beneath Luna's borrowed silk. In the way she blinks too slowly, like staying awake is an act of will rather than nature. The fight has drained out of her, replaced by a wary resignation that makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to tenderness.
I want to pull her into my arms, bury my face in her hair, and breathe her in until she fills all my senses. I want to tell her everything will be alright, that I'll burn the world down before I let anyone hurt her or our child.
I want to tell her everything and trust that she's strong enough to hear it.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I cross to her and cup her face in my hands, tilting her chin up until she has no choice but to meet my gaze. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, impossibly soft, and I feel the slight tremor that runs through her at my touch. Her breath catches. Her pupils dilate. And despite everything, her body sways toward mine, drawn by the same magnetic pull that's been dragging us toward each other since the night we met.
She fits in my hands like she was made for them.
The ring on her finger catches the light as her hand rises, almost touching my chest before she catches herself and lets it fall.
I release her, though it takes more willpower than I'd like to admit.
"My driver is waiting downstairs to take you to your new home." I pull out my phone to send the text. "You'll be safe with him. Marco has been with my family for fifteen years."
She blinks, something flickering across her face that takes me a moment to identify. Surprise. Maybe even disappointment.
"You're not joining me?"
The question warms something in my chest I have no right to feel. She expected me to come with her. Wanted it, maybe, even if she'd never admit it aloud.
But I know better than to crowd her. She needs space to breathe, to process, to walk through the rooms of her new life without my shadow looming over her shoulder. She needs to see that the cage she's imagining doesn't exist.
"I'll see you tomorrow." I keep my voice gentle, though it takes more effort than I'd like to admit. "Take this time to learn your new home. There's no part of the mansion that's locked to you.Explore. Rest." I hold her gaze, letting her see the sincerity beneath the words. "Tomorrow is a big day."
She searches my face for the trap, the catch, the hidden terms I'm not revealing. Finding none, she gives a small nod, more reflex than agreement.
"Go, jungle flower." My voice drops low, intimate. A promise and a threat wrapped in velvet. "Tomorrow you become Mrs. Valentina."
She glares at the endearment, fire sparking in those exhausted eyes, but she doesn't pull away. Doesn't correct me. Her lips part like she wants to say something sharp, something cutting, but the words don't come. Instead, she just holds my gaze, searching for something I'm not sure even she could name.
Progress.
She turns without another word and walks to the door. Every line of her body screams defiance, even in retreat.
She pauses with her hand on the handle, but doesn't look back.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you." Her voice is quiet. Final. The words of a woman drawing a line in the sand. "This doesn't mean I trust you. This is survival. Nothing more."
"I know." I keep my voice soft, careful. "But I'm going to earn both. Forgiveness and trust. I'll spend the rest of my life earning them if I have to."
She pulls the door open and steps through, letting it close behind her with a soft click that sounds like a judge's gavel falling.
I stand alone in my office, surrounded by the scent of jasmine that lingers in her wake. It clings to the air, teasing me to follow her.
Drake's warning echoes through the silence, louder now that she's gone.
"Secrets like this have a way of detonating at the worst possible moment."
I sink into my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight, and stare at the desktop computer glowing softly in the late morning light. My finger moves to the keyboard almost without conscious thought, muscle memory carrying me to the folder I should have reviewed before she walked through that door.
MARCHETTI, I.
The label stares back at me. Inside that folder is everything. The surveillance photos. The schedules of her movements, her classes, her rare escapes from her father's watchful eye. The clinical notes typed with cold efficiency by a man who didn't yet know what she would become to him.
