Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
ENRICO FERRARA
The dining table was flawless.
Expensive china. Polished silver. Crystal glasses that caught the light like cut ice. The staff had followed my instructions with precision: three place settings, arranged perfectly. Not a single detail out of alignment.
I walked into the dining room with the calm authority of a man who owned the space—who owned the house. I took my seat at the head of the table with deliberate composure, casting an indifferent glance at the two empty chairs across from me.
Minutes passed.
Valentina didn’t appear.
Clara didn’t appear.
My jaw tightened as the room stayed empty, the silence stretching just long enough to feel like defiance. Anger moved under my ribs like something restless, looking for a way out. I made an impatient gesture to one of the maids standing discreetly by the door.
“Go tell Mrs. Valentina and my daughter that dinner is served,” I said. “Tell them I’m waiting.”
“Yes, Mr. Ferrara,” she replied with a small nod and hurried out.
I stayed rigid in my chair, tapping my fingers against the table—steady, controlled, irritating even to my own ears. A few minutes later, the maid returned, hesitating, eyes lowered. Her discomfort made the message obvious before she spoke.
“Mr. Ferrara… Mrs. Valentina asked me to tell you that Clara has already eaten and is asleep.”
My brows pulled together instantly.
Already eaten?
My daughter had been in this house less than a day, and I was already being cut out of something as basic as dinner?
“Asleep,” I repeated, my voice dropping into something dangerously quiet.
The maid swallowed, clearly regretting being the messenger.
“Yes, sir. She was tired.”
My jaw clenched harder.
“Very well,” I said slowly, control held together by sheer force. “Then tell my wife I’m waiting for her.”
The maid nodded quickly and disappeared again.
More minutes passed.
Each second fed my impatience until it felt like heat under my skin.
When the maid returned, she looked even more uncomfortable.
“Mr. Ferrara… Mrs. Valentina asked me to tell you that she is also tired and will not be coming down to dinner.”
This time, my hand curled into a fist on the table so tightly my knuckles ached.
If Valentina believed I was going to allow her to challenge me in my own house—deliberately, publicly, through staff—she was out of her mind.
I kept my voice low, controlled, but sharp enough to leave no doubt.
“Go back,” I said. “And tell my wife her presence is not optional. I’m not eating without her.”
The maid flinched at the hardness in my tone and hurried away.
I waited, fury simmering beneath my composure. When she returned again—visibly rattled—I knew Valentina had pushed it further.
“What did she say?” I asked, my voice dry as steel.
“She…” The maid’s voice wavered. “Mrs. Valentina said she’s truly very tired, and she regrets deeply that it means you’ll have to fast tonight, but she won’t be joining you.”
For a beat, I simply stared at the maid.
“She regrets,” I repeated slowly, the words laced with dangerous irony. “Deeply.”
“Yes, sir,” the maid said, trembling. “She said… deeply.”
I inhaled.
Not to calm down.
To make a decision.
“Fine,” I said, rising in one smooth motion. “Bring everything up. Set it on a cart and take it upstairs. If my wife is too tired to come down, I’ll spare her the effort.”
The staff stared for half a second—stunned—then moved quickly, as they always did when my voice left no room for interpretation.
I walked toward the stairs, already anticipating the look on Valentina’s face when she opened that door. If she wouldn’t come down, I would go up.
I knocked twice—only because I knew she’d assume it was another staff member.
Footsteps rushed on the other side. The handle turned fast.
A cold smile lifted at the corner of my mouth.
“Tell Mr. Ferrara that—” Valentina froze mid-sentence when she saw me.
I stood there with a faintly amused expression, the dinner cart just behind me.
“Well,” I murmured, stepping into the room before she could recover or block me, “what a pleasant surprise to find you so full of energy, my dear wife.”
She stepped back instinctively, shock and indignation tightening her features as I crossed the threshold.
Behind me, the staff rolled the cart in and began setting the table with professional speed.
“You have lost your mind,” Valentina said, finally finding her voice. She stayed near the door as if proximity alone could keep control. “You can’t just barge into my room like this.”
I turned slowly to face her, holding her gaze with deliberate calm.
A faint smile returned, colder this time, as I stepped closer and lowered my voice so only she could hear.
“This house is mine, Valentina.” My eyes held hers. “Everything in it belongs to me.”
The fury in her dark eyes sparked something viciously satisfying in my chest.
She understood what I meant.
I wasn’t talking about the bedroom.
Valentina drew in a breath, visibly forcing herself not to scream or shove me back into the hallway. The staff finished arranging the meal and slipped out, closing the door behind them.
Silence dropped.
Just the two of us.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her laugh bitter, her sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “Trying to remind me you can still humiliate me whenever you want?”
I stepped closer until the space between us felt intentionally small.
“First,” I said, voice low and controlled, “you’re going to understand that your will in this house is irrelevant. You do what I say, when I say it.” I kept my eyes locked on hers. “If I say we’re having dinner together, then we’re having dinner together.”
Valentina lifted her chin, defiance burning bright.
“And what if I don’t feel like it?” she shot back. “What are you going to do—tie me down and spoon-feed me?”
My smile widened—slow, cruel.
“Of course not.” I let the pause stretch. “But then starting tomorrow, you’ll go hungry.”
Her face changed instantly.
I watched the impact land.
“I’ve already instructed the staff,” I continued, calm as a man discussing weather, “to serve you meals away from the main table only when I’m not in the house.”
“You’re sick,” she said, voice trembling with rage, fists clenching at her sides.
I leaned in close enough for my words to feel like breath against her skin.
“No,” I said softly. “I’m your husband.” I let the title sit there like a blade. “And I don’t intend to endure your presence for more than one meal a day. So you’ll sit with me every night—whether you like it or not.”
Valentina’s nostrils flared. She fought for control the way she always did—by stiffening, by refusing to let emotion show too much.
It didn’t matter.
The tension between us thickened until it felt almost physical.
“And now,” I said, straightening and moving toward the table, “we’re going to eat.” I sat with unhurried composure and glanced at the chair across from me. “You’re going to sit down and tell me everything about my daughter’s life.”
I made a small gesture—mock courteous.
“So please, my dear wife… sit.”
Valentina stayed frozen for several long seconds, her expression a mixture of disbelief and hatred.
Then something shifted inside her—something hard.
With cold, defiant dignity, she walked to the table and sat in the chair across from me.
“I hope you’re satisfied, my lord,” she said, voice dripping with contempt.
“Satisfied?” I snapped, irritation flaring despite my control. “My daughter is asleep and I wasn’t even told. She ate without me.” I leaned forward slightly. “Do you honestly think I’d be satisfied?”
Valentina’s smile turned razor-thin.
“Fine, Enrico,” she said. “Since you insist, let’s talk.” She met my eyes like a challenge. “What do you want to know about Clara? Her bedtime? When she brushes her teeth? What she plays with?” Her sarcasm sharpened. “Since you’re suddenly so interested—five years later.”
The jab hit exactly where she aimed it.
I didn’t give her the pleasure of seeing it.
“I want to know everything,” I said evenly, beginning to serve myself without looking away from her. “I won’t make the same mistake you did.”
She lifted a brow, almost laughing.
“My mistake? What mistake, Enrico? Protecting my daughter from a father who rejected her?”
My fingers tightened around the silverware.
“Five years,” I said, voice low. “You stole five years of my life with Clara. I didn’t see her grow. I wasn’t there for her first steps, her first words.” I let the resentment show just enough to make it real. “And you want to call that protection?”
Valentina leaned forward, her anger sharp and almost—annoyingly—beautiful.
“Stole?” she said, hard. “You gave them up.” Her gaze didn’t blink.
“When you left me at the altar—pregnant—in front of hundreds of people.” She stabbed the air with the truth.
“You rejected your daughter before she even existed to you. Don’t talk to me about mistakes.
You lost the right to that five years ago when you decided the baby I was carrying couldn’t be yours. ”
Guilt tried to rise.
I crushed it.
“I believed you betrayed me,” I said, voice cutting. “What did you expect me to do?”
“To believe me,” she shot back, intensity breaking through her control. “To listen before you condemned me to hell.” Her voice trembled, not with weakness—rage held too long. “To not destroy my life without giving me a single chance to prove I was telling the truth.”
We stared at each other.
The air between us was packed with grief, fury, and something else—something deeper and far more dangerous than either of us wanted to name.
I forced my posture back into calm.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, cold again. “We’re here now. You will accept that there is no alternative but to live with me.” I let the threat slide in smooth. “Unless you’d rather give up your daughter.”
Valentina’s eyes narrowed.
“I would never give up Clara,” she said, voice tight.