Chapter 27
Mikayla
A dry, restless feeling dragged me out of sleep and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t painful—just uncomfortable enough to keep my eyes open. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts slow and foggy as I tried to remember where I was.
Gianni’s bed.
The realization settled in quietly. The house was silent in that deep, late-night way that made every sound feel louder than it should have.
Somewhere in the distance, something hummed—low and steady, like a machine doing its job without care for who was awake to hear it.
The sheets were cool against my skin, the space beside me warm.
His warmth. Proof that he was there, sleeping peacefully, unaware that I was wide awake.
I moved slowly when I sat up, careful not to disturb him.
My heart thudded louder than my footsteps ever could.
I slid out of the bed and stood there for a second, barefoot on the floor.
The cold crept up through my soles, sharp and grounding, reminding me that this was real. That I was really here.
I headed for the kitchen, moving quietly, placing each step with care. I rounded the corner, the darkness opening up ahead of me—and stopped.
Voices drifted from the adjoining corridor. Low. Male. Familiar. Gianni’s men.
I froze, instinct kicking in before logic had a chance to catch up. I wasn’t meant to hear this. That much was obvious from the tone alone—casual, unguarded, the kind of conversation people only had when they thought no one else was around.
“…can’t keep her forever,” one of them said.
My stomach tightened.
“Doesn’t matter,” another replied. “Provence is the endgame. Always has been.”
I pressed myself back against the wall, heart pounding now, water forgotten entirely.
“He’ll give her back,” the first voice continued. “Sooner or later. Popovich won’t agree to anything without getting her back.”
“He needs leverage.”
There was that despised word again.
Leverage.
I felt the word like a physical blow.
“She’s the only thing Archie wants,” someone else added. “Gianni knows that.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Shame. She seems… nice.”
Nice.
I swallowed hard, bile creeping up the back of my throat. The conversation shifted then—logistics, timing, the inevitability of it all—but I didn’t hear the rest. My pulse was roaring too loud in my ears, my thoughts tumbling over each other faster than I could catch them.
I backed away slowly, carefully, until I was sure they couldn’t see me. Then I turned and walked—no, floated—as though in a waking dream, back toward my room.
Every step felt unreal.
Leverage.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, palms flat against the wood, breathing hard like I’d just run a mile. The room felt different now. Smaller. Like it was watching me.
I’d been stupid.
Na?ve enough to believe dinner meant something. Dancing. Kissing. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Of course he’d planned it. Of course he had. That’s what dinner had been about. To soften me up. To make way for his greatest achievement. Whatever the fuck that was.
The spiral started quietly, then gained momentum.
He’d been there that day. At the church. Right when I’d been running. Right when I needed someone—anyone—to stop me from falling apart.
Now that I thought about it, it was all too convenient.
Had he hit me on purpose?
The thought slid in sideways, uninvited but impossible to ignore. I replayed it in my head—the impact, the suddenness of it, the way his hands had been there instantly, steady and sure. Too sure.
My chest tightened until breathing hurt. I wrapped my arms around myself, nails digging into my skin, trying to anchor myself in something solid.
Had any of it been real?
Or had I been managed from the start?
Dinner. The view. The way he’d touched me like I was fragile instead of expendable. All of it could have been theatre. A softening tactic. Something to make the trade easier when the time came. Something he did to alleviate his conscience for throwing me away.
I felt sick.
I crossed the room and opened the wardrobe, staring at the clothes hanging neatly inside. They looked wrong somehow, like they belonged to someone else’s life, not mine. I wasn’t going to wait around to be handed back to Archie like a signed contract. Not again.
I wouldn’t be used like that again. Not as a bargaining chip. Not for anyone.
I should have known better than to believe safety was a permanent thing.
My hands shook as I pulled out the small duffel bag that had come with some of the clothes Gianni had bought for me. I didn’t want his things. I didn’t want to owe him anything. But I needed something to wear—just enough to get me through until I could stand on my own again.
I started packing quickly. Essentials only. A change of clothes and some underwear.
My heart was racing now, adrenaline flooding my system as the plan took shape. I didn’t know where I’d go yet. Somewhere. Anywhere. I just needed distance. Time. Space to think without men deciding my value for me.
A floorboard creaked in the hall.
I froze.
“Mikayla?”
Gianni’s voice.
My breath hitched. Panic flared sharp and sudden, and I shoved the bag into the closet on instinct, hands fumbling.
The door opened.
He stepped inside, eyes scanning the room, landing on me instantly. His expression shifted the moment he took in my face—too pale, too tight, already halfway to a meltdown.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I laughed then. A short, brittle sound that didn’t belong to me.
“I don’t know, Gianni. Why don’t you tell me?”