Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ENRICO FERRARA
The silence in the mansion broke with the sound of a car approaching the main gate.
I moved to the window and watched with a mix of satisfaction and irritation as Valentina stepped out.
She looked smaller than I remembered—careful in her movements, eyes averted as if pretending she hadn’t noticed me standing there.
Good.
Comfort was the last thing I wanted her to feel.
Then she helped Clara out of the car.
The way Valentina immediately took her hand—like she could shield her from me—irritated me more than it should have.
I inhaled slowly and pushed the discomfort down.
This was what I wanted.
Valentina needed to feel the weight of her choices, the consequences, the same pressure I’d lived with for years.
The front door opened—one of the staff greeting them—and I stayed exactly where I was, letting my presence do what it always did.
Control the room.
Valentina stepped inside. Clara followed, gripping her mother’s hand, eyes sweeping the space with cautious curiosity.
Seeing my daughter cross the threshold of my house tightened something in my throat.
In my urgency—my rage—I hadn’t fully considered how hard this would land on her.
“Welcome,” I said, and even to my own ears my voice sounded too formal.
Valentina lifted her gaze to mine for a brief moment, then nodded without a smile. There was no need for performance between us now.
Then she turned to Clara, crouched, and smiled—soft, reassuring—reserved exclusively for her child.
“Sweetheart,” Valentina said gently, “remember I told you we were going to stay at Uncle Enrico’s house for a little while, until we fix some things back home?”
The lie was smooth. Practiced.
Clara nodded slowly, skeptical, peeking at me and then tightening her grip on Valentina’s hand.
Valentina rose and faced me.
Her eyes sharpened into a silent warning: Don’t contradict me. Don’t question it. Not in front of her.
I disliked it immediately.
Still, I forced a mild smile and aimed it at my daughter.
“Welcome, Clara,” I said quietly, pulling every ounce of softness I could summon into my voice. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“Thank you for letting us stay,” Clara said politely—but her gaze flicked back to her mother, and her hand squeezed harder.
Valentina brushed her hair, protective, and held my stare a second longer—testing whether I would challenge her story.
When she realized I wouldn’t—not in front of Clara—her shoulders loosened slightly, though her expression stayed cold.
“Can we go to our room now?” she asked. “Clara’s tired.”
It wasn’t a request.
It was an order wrapped in politeness.
I clenched my teeth and nodded once, gesturing down the hall where my housekeeper was already waiting.
“Dolores can show you the house.”
“Not now,” Valentina said, decisive. “Later.”
“Very well.”
She walked away, leading Clara with her.
“Valentina,” I called.
She stopped instantly. Her shoulders tightened before she even turned, as if my voice alone pulled a wire inside her spine.
The look she gave me—cold, wary—wasn’t surprising.
And I felt a perverse satisfaction watching her stand there braced for impact.
“After Clara rests,” I said, keeping my voice measured, “come to my office. We need to talk about what’s expected—going forward.”
My tone was intentionally impersonal.
A challenge.
Valentina’s expression hardened. Anger and old pain flashed in her eyes.
“Fine,” she said at last, fists subtly clenched at her sides. “Later.”
She disappeared down the corridor without looking back.
My initial satisfaction faded quickly into irritation.
Valentina needed to understand her position in this house.
She wasn’t a guest.
She wasn’t a friend.
She was here because there was no other choice—because I had decided it.
And if I had anything to say about it, she would never forget that.
I went to my office, tension rigid in my muscles.
Yes, Clara was my daughter, and she deserved stability.
But Valentina would not play the victim in front of me.
Not anymore.
She was exactly where I wanted her: inside my home, unable to run from consequences, unable to escape the pressure she’d forced me to live with.
And I would make sure she felt it—day after day.
Nearly an hour later, two sharp knocks hit my door.
Valentina entered without waiting for permission, her gaze determined and defiant.
“You wanted to talk,” she said, voice controlled as she shut the door behind her. Her arms were crossed like armor. Her posture rigid—clear proof she had no intention of making this easy.
“Sit,” I said, gesturing toward the chair in front of my desk. I didn’t stand. I didn’t offer courtesy.
My face stayed neutral. Cold. Like this was business.
Valentina didn’t move.
The refusal was deliberate.
A familiar irritation sparked—but I didn’t let it show.
“As you prefer,” I said, leaning back. “Let’s get to it. You don’t have to like this situation. But there are rules.”
Her brow lifted, almost amused.
“Rules,” she echoed. “Interesting word coming from you. I thought you preferred making your own—and changing them whenever it suits you.”
I ignored the provocation.
“First,” I said evenly, “we are legally married. We will act like it in public. You will play your role flawlessly. No scenes. No games. No drama.”
Valentina’s lips pressed together.
“I don’t need a lesson in pretending,” she said. “I learned that when you left me at the altar.”
A cold smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
It still hurt her.
That knowledge was a dark satisfaction I didn’t bother resisting.
“Then we won’t have a problem,” I said. “Second: Clara.” My voice sharpened. “I didn’t appreciate today’s surprise. I don’t tolerate lies in my house—especially ones involving my daughter.”
“Clara barely knows you,” Valentina snapped. “Two weeks of visits don’t change that. She thinks you’re a friend. And for now, that’s what you will be.”
“She has a right to know.”
“And you had a right to abandon me at the altar while I was pregnant?” she shot back, heat rising. “Is that the kind of ‘right’ you mean?”
“I was destroyed,” I said, anger tightening my voice. “Your betrayal destroyed me.”
“You were fooled,” she said, deadly calm. “You still are. And you can stay broken if you want—but don’t break her.”
I rose and braced my hands on the desk, leaning forward.
“Clara is my daughter,” I said, voice low. “And you don’t get to decide everything alone. Next time, you speak to me before you invent stories.”
Valentina stared at me, eyes hard.
“Did she call you ‘Dad’?” she asked quietly.
The question cut sharper than it should have.
“No,” I admitted, bitter.
“Then why are you acting like one?” She didn’t flinch. “You may have forced us into this house, but don’t think for a second I’m going to obey you blindly. I’m not your employee. And I’m not your property.”
I stepped closer, letting the space between us tighten.
“No,” I agreed, voice smooth. “You’re not.”
Then I let my eyes lock onto hers.
“But don’t forget… you depend on me again.” I held the words like a blade. “And this time, Valentina, there’s nowhere to run.”
Her jaw clenched. Rage brightened her eyes.
Good.
“Any more rules?” she asked, voice dripping with irony.
I leaned back again, crossing my arms.
“Not rules,” I said, deliberate. “Logistics.” I paused, savoring the dislike on her face. “Security will escort you when you leave. You will not walk alone in town.”
“My situation changed?” she repeated, sarcasm thick.
“It did,” I said. “You are now Mrs. Ferrara.” I watched her flinch.
“A credit card will be available in the morning for personal expenses. Use it as needed—especially for Clara.” I allowed myself a faint, cold smile.
“I want my daughter well dressed, Valentina. Take her shopping. Buy what she needs. I’m not interested in people whispering that I don’t take care of my family. ”
Her face went rigid. Her breathing sharpened.
She curled her fists at her sides like she was holding back a scream.
The anger in her eyes was almost… satisfying.
“Anything else, Mr. Ferrara?” she asked again, voice trembling with wounded pride.
I didn’t blink.
“Just one more thing.”
I lowered my voice, making it clear it wasn’t a suggestion.
“You don’t leave this house without my authorization—especially not with Clara. You don’t make a move without speaking to me first. Is that clear?”
For a second, I thought she might lunge at me.
Instead, she lifted her chin higher, hatred sharp enough to cut.
“Crystal.”
I returned to my chair with deliberate calm.
“You can go.”
Valentina stood still a moment longer, like she had more words burning inside her mouth.
Then she turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to echo through the entire house.
I sat in silence, staring at the closed door as my pulse slowed.
Her hostility—her pain—was exactly what I wanted her to feel.
And yet the satisfaction drained the moment I was alone, replaced by something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
A discomfort that had no name.