Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
ENRICO FERRARA
When Valentina walked out the door, something inside me died.
Not dramatically. Not like in the movies.
It was subtle. Almost silent. A hollow thud in the center of my chest—as if my heart had tripped over itself and fallen into nothing.
The way the dress clung to her body. The firm echo of her heels on the stairs. The scent of her perfume invading my senses.
Everything made it painfully clear: this time, she wasn’t going to the grocery store.
She was going to meet someone.
And I… I instantly became a pathetic teenage boy stealing the car to follow the girl who no longer wanted him—because I couldn’t live without knowing who the hell had taken what I had lost.
I waited two full minutes after she left.
Ten eternal, suffocating minutes. My fists never unclenched. My jaw stayed so tight I could hear my teeth grind.
I gave up.
Grabbed my keys. Crossed the living room in a nearly irrational impulse. Got into the car.
And followed her.
It wasn’t hard. The town was small, the night quiet—but the chaos inside me made everything feel unbearably slow.
I parked a street away when I saw her stop in front of an elegant, charming restaurant—far too charming to be innocent.
Then I saw him.
Tall. Well-dressed. Confident. The kind of man who walked as if the world rolled out a red carpet just for him.
He smiled when he saw her.
My fist tightened around the steering wheel as rage surged through my veins like acid.
I sat there in the dark, binoculars in hand.
Binoculars.
Something I had never imagined using outside corporate negotiations or strategic surveillance—never to spy on her. Never to watch Valentina with another man.
But I couldn’t look away.
They greeted each other with brief embraces. Easy smiles. Laughed. Sat by the window under candlelight.
And my chest ached when I realized that soft glow fell on them exactly as it would on a perfect couple.
I hated it.
Every detail was a direct hit to my chest—until something changed.
They weren’t looking into each other’s eyes. Conversation was shallow. Valentina nervously twisted the folded napkin in her hands. Her smile disappeared. Her body stiffened.
And when the man said something that made her freeze completely, a knot tightened painfully in my throat.
Even from a distance, even hidden, I knew.
Something had gone wrong.
Valentina stood abruptly, apologized quickly, and left—eyes fixed on the ground, breathing visibly shallow.
She looked like she was about to cry.
Or run.
I started the engine again without thinking.
I wouldn’t let her disappear. I would make sure she was safe—even if she hated me more for it. Even if every fiber of my body screamed to turn back and break the face of the man who had dared make my woman want to cry.
I kept my headlights off, following at a distance.
Then her car slowed. Pulled over. A flat tire.
I watched her step out—tired, frustrated. Her shoulders sagged.
I turned on the headlights. Parked behind her. Got out.
She turned toward the light, shielding her eyes, her body stiffening as she recognized my car. My silhouette.
“No…” she whispered, disbelief rough in her voice. “You didn’t…”
“I did.”
She inhaled sharply, anger flashing in her eyes.
“You—” Her voice shook. “You followed me?”
I met her gaze and didn’t flinch.
“You were on a date, Valentina?”
The question hung between us—dense, dangerous, loaded with jealousy, fear, pain. And the insane certainty that there was almost nothing I wouldn’t do under their weight.
She stepped back, her hand trembling around her keys.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she hissed. “Did you really follow me, Enrico Ferrara?”
My jaw ached with the effort of restraint.
“You went on a date,” I repeated, stepping closer. “You dressed like that to have dinner with another man.”
“That’s none of your business!” she exploded. “You had no right to follow me!”
“He took you to an expensive restaurant where you barely spoke for ten minutes,” I shot back.
Her eyes widened in shock.
“You were spying on me?!”
I dropped my gaze for a second. Then looked back at her, letting the pain show.
“I was remembering what it feels like to lose you.”
She trembled.
“Then remember properly,” she spat. “Next time, think before leaving me at the altar.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
I deserved them.
“He hugged you,” I murmured.
“So what?” she snapped. “Of course he did—he’s my friend!”
“I was jealous,” I admitted quietly.
She blinked, startled. Then laughed bitterly.
“Jealous of a hug?”
“No.” I stepped closer. “Jealous of watching another man do lightly what I destroyed with rage.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. Her chest rose sharply.
“You can scream, hate me, curse me,” I said steadily. “But I will wait for you to love me again—even if it takes my entire life.”
She shoved me—weak, desperate, aching.
And even though everything inside me begged to pull her close and silence all that pain with my mouth, I stepped back.
Two steps.
Breathing hard.
Respecting the line she drew.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she whispered, shaking.
“You have all the time you need to figure it out. Tonight, just let me take you home.”
“And if I don’t want to go home?” she challenged. “What if I want to go back to the restaurant? Or to Fabrício’s hotel?”
Fabrício.
So that was his name.
“Then all you have to do is ask.”
“You’d take me?”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you—even if it destroys me. And that would be fair. Didn’t I destroy you once?”
She stared at me for a long time.
My heart hammered as I waited. If she asked me to take her to that man’s hotel—I would.
I truly would.
She bit her lip. Nodded.
“Take me home, Enrico. Just… take me home.”
And I did.