Chapter 25 Lia
LIA
Three days. That’s how long the box has been under my mattress in my new room.
I can’t bring myself to touch or even look at it, which was why I kept it hidden and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
I tell myself I’m being smart. Out of sight, out of mind. Except, it hasn’t been out of my mind. As I go about my daily routine, my mind keeps going back there, to what could be inside, to how my freedom could be sitting under my mattress, gathering dust as each day passes.
I’m scared, but it’s not the box I’m afraid of. It’s what it means. It’s what it makes real. Because if I open it, if I let myself believe even for a second that there’s a way out… then I have to act. And trying to run away now will only invite worse monsters.
But with each passing second under this roof, the decision to check what could be inside the box feels less like a choice and more like what I have to do to survive, for many reasons.
Marco’s lingering touch doesn’t feel as loving as it used to.
It just feels possessive and claiming. His arm tightening around my waist when we pass Francesco in the hall, his thumb brushing just a little too possessively over my knuckles when we’re at the table, his smile when people ask about the baby, sweet but with a sharp edge.
Being around him has become a performance.
The aunts are constantly watching me. They no longer act outright rude to me, but I see the acuity in their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I see their judgment. I see their hatred. They don’t think I belong in their home. I don’t think I do either.
The guards are always a few feet behind me. They follow me even when I’m just heading to the garden or taking a walk around the house. I’ve had to tell them to stop following me a few times.
And Francesco. I haven’t seen him since he gave me the box.
I know he’s avoiding me on purpose, and I hate how much that affects me.
He’s always in my thoughts, in my head, and in my heart.
Thinking about him means thinking about the box, what exactly is inside, and why he gave it to me.
Did he feel guilty? Was his plan to spark my hope that I could leave this place?
Whatever his reason was, all his actions have done is leave a gaping void in my chest.
Eventually, I decide to start acting.
I start learning the rhythms of the estate, paying attention to things I never glanced at twice before.
When the guards rotate shifts, who comes into and leaves the estate, and late at night, I look for more hidden paths around the house.
I discover that there’s more than one cellar in the estate, and there is an old servants’ tunnel that even the guards seem to have forgotten exists.
Even infrequently used dumbwaiters. I listen to whispers between the maids, drivers, and security, piecing together other things around the house that are hidden in plain sight.
Because I know that if I run, I have to do it right. I can’t afford to hesitate or make mistakes because I’m not just thinking about myself now. There’s a heartbeat inside me that needs to be kept alive.
So on the fourth day, I finally pull the box out again and open it.
It smells like old wood and dust. Inside, everything is exactly how Francesco said. The passports. The silver rosary. A folded piece of paper with bank accounts, codes, and names I don’t recognize. Safehouses in places I’ve never been. My father’s handwriting, faded at the edges.
“You really tried to save me, didn’t you?” I whisper in a broken voice.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I feel my heart squeeze painfully.
I used to blame my father for vanishing, for choosing his job over me, for not being there when I needed him most.
But now… now I know. He died trying to protect me. He died building something bigger than both of us, a plan to give me a future he couldn’t share.
My emotions drift from guilt to gratitude to respect.
In his own twisted and messy way, my father tried all he could to give me a good life.
He was never a perfect man, but a flawed one who made desperate, broken choices out of love.
When I was younger, I thought he didn’t love me.
Now, staring at the dusty box in my hands, it is undeniable that he loved me more than anything.
He didn’t abandon me. He died trying to save me. His sacrifice drives me now, giving me the strength to fight for myself and my child, because in this brutal world, trying was the greatest love he could give.
And I’m not going to waste that.
A week passes by so fast. The Society luncheon is fast approaching, and the house is in chaos.
Florists and artisans come and go. The aunts bark instructions at the maids.
Lucia Moretti, who has taken it upon herself to be the event planner, has a meltdown because the tablecloth isn’t “the right shade of white.”
I’m helping check the table arrangements when I start to feel a bit dizzy. I glance around me. Everyone is distracted, including the guards. No one would notice if I slipped away.
So I do.
I wander down a quieter wing of the estate. My feet ache in my heels. My head pounds from the scent of citrus polish. I just need some peace and quiet.
There’s a hallway behind the conservatory that no one really uses anymore. The chandeliers above are coated in years of dust. My quiet footsteps seem to echo in the almost eerie silence. My curiosity leads me further down, and that’s when I hear something.
A soft thud.
I pause outside one of the old sitting rooms, my heart beating in my chest. Has someone been following me?
But when I hear a soft gasp follow, I trace the sound to the slightly open door of the sitting room.
I quietly move toward the door to take a peek, and my body freezes at the sight before me.
Silvia Moretti, her body pressed against the wall, her lips locked with Antonio.
Her bodyguard.
They’re tangled up in each other like they’ve been starving for the kiss. His hands are buried in her hair. Her fingers grip his jacket like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. The more she moans, the more the kiss heats up.
I stand there for a few seconds, unsure of what to say or do.
And just then, her eyes open and meet mine across the room.
Her face drains of color as she immediately shoves Antonio back.
Seeing the look on her face, he turns to look at me, and I notice his jaw clench.
But he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand hovers protectively near her hip, like he’s protecting her from whatever the consequence of catching them might be.
We stare at each other for a few more seconds. Eventually, Silvia removes Antonio’s hand from her waist and steps forward.
“I know you… saw what you saw,” she starts. I’ve never heard her sound so nervous. “Please, don’t say anything.”
There was a time I used to crave something that looked like this, the kind of hunger that made you forget the rules. But in this house, forgetting comes with a price.
So I smile. That brittle, sharp kind that barely hides the ache.
“It’s fine. We all have our cages, don’t we?”
Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk away.
I return to continue with the decorations. By the time I return to my room in the evening, I’m exhausted.
I walk over to the vanity, ready to take off the ridiculous pearl jewelry I have to wear every day now, when I see a note sitting on the surface.
I pick it up and read the short note in handwriting I don’t recognize.
‘Wear a pretty dress. You’ll see why in an hour. —Marco.’
In a few minutes past one hour, I see why.
The guard leading me stops and gestures with his hands for me to walk forward. I walk into the garden, and the scene before me looks like something out of a dream.
Candles flicker along the low stone wall. A small table waits beneath the olive trees, dressed in white linen and soft, warm light. The scent of rosemary and citrus drifts through the air. A bottle of non-alcoholic champagne rests chilled beside two fluted glasses.
Marco turns when he hears me. He grins, and it makes him look much younger. “You’re two minutes late.”
I roll my eyes and step forward. “I didn’t know what I was getting dressed for. Your note was vague.”
He kisses my cheek and pulls a chair out for me. “That was the point.”
I take a seat, and he does the same.
When he starts pouring the non-alcoholic champagne into glasses, I ask, “Are we celebrating something?”
“No.” He hands me a glass. “I just felt like giving you a nice night. You deserve it.”
“Oh, how kind of you.”
He chuckles. “Stop being sarcastic.”
“I’m not being sarcastic.”
“You sound like it.”
I sip the wine to hide my smile. “So you don’t believe I think this was a kind gesture?”
He leans back in his chair, tipping the glass toward his lips. “It’s the way you said it.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out if this is a date or a bribe for something else.”
“You just proved me right.”
We both laugh.
It’s easy, for a second. The way it used to be, before the pregnancy, before the engagement. He watches me with that old sparkle in his eyes, the one that used to make me feel like I was the only person in the room. I hate how much I still recognize it.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says after a moment. “More than usual. I see you every day, but we barely even talk to each other, like actually engage in a proper conversation.”
“I’ve been so… tired, I guess. If I knew being rich was this stressful, I wouldn’t have prayed to be a billionaire as a child.”
We both laugh again, but then his laughter dies down as a soft look takes over his features.
“I miss hearing your laugh.”
That… softens something in my chest. I don’t answer right away, and he doesn’t say anything else. He reaches for the dishes between us—grilled vegetables, roasted chicken, warm bread—and begins to serve me.
“You’re cutting the bread wrong,” I murmur.
He snorts. “It’s bread. It’s not supposed to be perfect. Drizzle some sauce over it, and it looks just delicious.”
“Dishing food is a sacred art.”
“Food still tastes the same no matter how it’s served,” he argues back.
I miss how we used to argue about the most mundane things.
“If you had to choose between two plates of the same meal—one all fancy and perfectly plated, the other just thrown together—what would you go for?”
“The latter,” he says without missing a beat.
I laugh. “That’s such a bald-faced lie, and you know it.”
“Fine, you’re right,” he chuckles. “But it’s not my fault I never learned how to do anything related to the kitchen… except eat.”
His eyes twinkle when he looks up at me. “Maybe you could teach me sometime… how to be a better server, chef, how to please you…”
The air shifts. It gets warmer. Heavier.
Marco leans in, his elbows on the table, his voice quieter. “Do you ever think about how easy it was before?”
“Nothing is easy in this house.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me like he’s trying to memorize something. Or maybe guess what I’m hiding behind my smile.
“Sometimes I think about that first night we kissed,” he says. “Right here, under the moonlight. Things were easy back then.”
“Easier than it is now, maybe. Easy as a whole, no,” I whisper.
“But you kissed me anyway, and you liked it. For a moment, you forgot we weren’t supposed to be seen with each other, let alone kissing.”
I sigh, taking note of the softness in his eyes, one I haven’t seen in a while.
“It was…” I admit in a low voice. “Easy.”
Marco had made me feel like a little girl with a crush. He made me smile until my face hurt, made me giggle. He was my escape.
Now, I don’t even know what he is anymore.
We fall into silence again, the soft sound of birds chirping in the background. Then he gets up and walks around the table, slowly but surely.
“Can I?” he asks, reaching for my hand.
I nod. He lifts it gently, pressing his mouth to my fingers.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“No, I’m not.”
He doesn’t call me out on the lie.
Instead, his other hand rises, curling lightly around my waist as he pulls me up from the chair and closer to him.
I feel his breath before I feel his mouth.
The kiss is soft, deep, and slow. He tastes like he’s making a promise. Like he’s trying to make up for every bruise this place has put on my heart.
His hands squeeze my waist, and I grasp the front of his chest. A low groan slips past his lips as he deepens the kiss. But even as I bury my hands in his hair and kiss him back with as much fervor, I know.
This isn’t the kiss I ache for.
His hands travel down to my ass, and he squeezes firmly. My hands roam over his chest, wanting and searching for more.
This isn’t the touch that makes my knees weak.
There’s no spark. No ache. No fire racing up my spine.
Just a boy trying to love and a girl pretending she can love him back.
I don’t stop him when his hand drifts down to caress my exposed thigh. I let him hold me, let him run his fingers over my skin. But when his hands start to drift higher under my dress, I pull away.
He watches my face closely, his expression hiding whatever he’s thinking.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my eyes unable to meet his. “I’m just tired.”
His jaw tenses for half a second, but he smiles anyway. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”
“No need,” I say almost too quickly. “Thank you. This was… nice.”
“Nice?” He gasps. “I put so much effort into this for you to call it nice, Lia. You hurt my feelings.”
I chuckle, slightly relieved at the lightness in his tone.
“It was amazing. I really loved it.”
But it doesn’t completely fade away. The tension. The suspicion creeping back into his smile. The darkness making its way into his eyes.
I walk away without turning back, almost sprinting to my room as I enter the house.
Upstairs, I close my bedroom door behind me and exhale hard. My legs are shaking.
I lock the door and walk over to my dresser. I pull the pendant from around my neck—the one Marco gave me the night of the engagement—and set it down.
Then I reach under the neckline of my dress and touch the rosary.
It feels cool. Heavy. Real.
I clutch it tight, my heart beating rapidly in my chest.
I know Marco genuinely loves me, but he doesn’t love me enough to grant me what I want.
Freedom.
He will never let me go, and he might lock me up if he has to.
The map in my head is not nearly finished, but it’s enough to at least get me out of the estate gates.
All I need is the right night when a guard might be sleeping or late for duty. Just one slip-up, one chance.
And when it comes, I’ll run. I’ll take the life my father died building, the one Francesco protected in silence, the one growing inside me.
I’ll run, and I won’t look back.