"Oh, Aurora,” she whispered brokenly.
No. No no no. Not that voice. Not the soft voice. Not the voice she used when Bruno scraped his knee or Luca cried because he found out dinosaurs were extinct forever. Because that voice meant pity. And I didn't want pity.
"I can't,” she said. “It’s too late.”
My chest went cold. "Chiara, it’s not too late. You have the power to stop all this."
"And I won't," she said.
The words hit me harder than getting slapped. I stared at her while something ugly and sharp twisted inside my chest. Because I couldn't hear the music anymore. Couldn't hear anything.
"You promised me," I whispered. “Did all of that mean nothing? You promised we'd escape."
Something flickered across her face. Pain. Real pain. "We were children, and I didn’t know any better."
"No." I stepped back. "Fuck no."
Anger hit me so fast it almost made me dizzy. Not sadness. Not hurt. Rage. Pure rage.
"Don't you dare,” I hissed at her when she reached out for me.
"Aurora, please,” she said.
"Don't you dare sit there and tell me we were children." My voice rose without permission. "You used to hate this world."
"I still do,” she muttered.
"Bullshit." The word cracked through the room. Chiara flinched. "You used to cry at night because Papa terrified you."
“He’s dead,” she whispered.
"You used to tell me we'd leave and never come back,” I continued, ignoring her. "You used to say we'd get jobs and apartments and a stupid pair of cats."
“Please, honey,” she said.
My eyes burned. "And now look at you."
“I’m happy,” she said defensively.
“But I never will be if you force me into this,” I hissed. I pointed wildly around the boutique. "The penthouse. The bodyguards. The husband. The children."
Chiara's expression hardened. "Don't bring my kids into this."
"No!" I shouted. "No, you don't get to tell me not to when you're doing this to me."
"I'm protecting you!" she said, wringing her hands.
"No, you're controlling me!" My voice echoed against mirrors. The room felt too small. Too bright. Too hot. "I don't want to marry Sergio!"
"You don't even know him,” she said.
"I don't love him!" I wanted to scream. “I never will.”
Chiara stared at me. Then laughed. Not amused. Not happy. A bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You will learn how to. Do you thinkeitherof us got a choice?"
That hurt. Because I saw it. Saw the exhaustion under her eyes. Saw the sadness over everything she’d been through. Saw everything. But I was too angry. Way too angry.
"I will spend the rest of my life miserable," I snapped. “And I will blame you forever. You can be happy being a good little prisoner bitch, but I’ll spend every moment fighting this.”
