Chapter 13 Maddie
I lie awake in the beautiful guest cottage for hours after dinner, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort through everything that's happened.
The evening was incredible. The food was amazing, the conversation was stimulating, and when Enzo told me he wanted me—the way he looked at me when he said it—I felt something I've never felt before. Like I was beautiful and desirable and worth pursuing.
But lying here in this perfect bedroom, in this perfect cottage, on his perfect property, all I can think about is the bathroom.
Not just that he saw me naked.
Though that was mortifying enough. It's the way it happened.
The casual way he entered a space where I had every right to expect privacy.
The fact that he admitted it was deliberate.
The complete lack of apology in his voice when he said if he wanted to see me naked, he'd find a way to make it happen.
Like my consent wasn't part of the equation.
I sit up in bed and look around this beautiful room that suddenly feels less like generous hospitality and more like a pretty trap. Everything here is his. The cottage, the furniture, the expensive toiletries.
I didn't earn any of this. I haven't contributed anything yet. This level of luxury and attention isn't a business arrangement and I can’t pretend it is. It’s something else entirely. And that something else comes with expectations I'm not sure I want to meet.
The rational part of my brain says I'm overreacting.
So, what if he saw me in the shower? It was just a body.
My body. And what if he is attracted to me?
I'm attracted to him too. So, what if he's providing me with beautiful accommodations while my cottage is being repaired? I'm going to be working to earn them.
But another part of my brain, the part that sounds suspiciously like my college women's studies professor is waving red flags like crazy.
I came to Sicily to prove I could take care of myself. To show Derek and everyone else that Madison Sullivan isn't just the predictable girl who plays it safe and follows all the rules. I bought a house—my house—to have something that belonged to me and only me.
And now I'm sleeping in someone else's bed, in someone else's space, completely dependent on someone else's generosity.
This isn't independence.
This is just a more comfortable form of dependence.
I get out of bed and walk to the window, looking out at the gorgeous view. In the distance, I can see the lights of the village, including what must be my house. My dark, cold, wonderful house that I bought for one euro and own completely.
Except for that stupid debt.
That house might not have electricity or hot water or working plumbing, but it has something this cottage doesn't have: it's mine. When I sleep there, it's because I choose to, not because someone else is providing for me in exchange for something questionable.
I think about the way Enzo looked at me during dinner, the intensity in his eyes when he said he wanted me. There was something possessive in that look, something that suggested he thought wanting me gave him certain rights over me.
Maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe I'm reading too much into a cultural misunderstanding and an awkward bathroom encounter. Maybe he really is just a successful businessman who's attracted to me and wants to help with my tourism project.
Or maybe he's not.
And the thing is, I don't have enough information to know which version is true. What I do know is that being completely dependent on him, for housing, for business connections, for transportation, makes it impossible to find out.
I need to be able to leave if I want to. I need to feel like I'm choosing to be here, not staying because I have no other choice.
By the time the sun comes up, I've made my decision.
I shower quickly, keeping the bathroom door locked this time, and get dressed in my most professional-looking outfit. If I'm going to have this conversation, I need to feel like I'm speaking from a position of confidence, not like a grateful recipient of his charity.
I find Enzo in his kitchen, making coffee and looking perfectly put-together despite the early hour. He's wearing jeans and a casual shirt, and his hair has that effortlessly tousled look.
"Good morning," he says, looking up with a smile that makes my heart do that fluttering thing again. "Coffee?"
"That would be great, thank you."
He pours me a cup and I take a grateful sip, letting the caffeine fortify my resolve.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"Yes, the cottage is beautiful. Thank you."
"But?"
He's more perceptive than I'd like. "I've been thinking about our arrangement."
"And?"
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I'm Madison Sullivan, a woman who takes risks and makes her own decisions.
"I think I should go back to my own house."
His expression doesn't change, but he’s surprised. "Why?"
"Because I came to Sicily to have my own place. To prove I could take care of myself and make something work on my own terms. Staying here, as beautiful as it is, feels like giving up on that before I've even tried my best."
"Your house doesn't have electricity or running water yet."
"I know. That's part of what I need to figure out."
"It would be much more practical to stay here while we establish the tourism business."
The way he says 'practical' makes it sound like my feelings about independence are silly and inconvenient. Which maybe they are, but they're also mine.
"Practical, yes. But not what I want."
He sets down his coffee cup and studies my face. "What exactly are you saying, Madison?"
"I'm saying I'd like to move back to my house today. And I'd like my car back from the repair shop so I can start taking care of things myself."
"Your car isn't ready yet."
"Then I'd like the contact information for the mechanic so I can check on the progress myself."
Another shift in his expression, this one less subtle. "You don't trust me to handle it?"
The question is loaded, and we both know it. Because this isn't really about the car.
"It's not about trust. It's about me being responsible for my own life."
We stare at each other across his perfect kitchen, and I can see him calculating. Whatever he's thinking, it's not making him happy.
"And the tourism business?" he asks finally.
"I still want to make that work. If you're still interested in partnering with me."
"From your house without electricity or transportation?"
"I'll figure it out. I’m only a few minutes away. Can you recommend someone who could help with repairs? An electrician, maybe a plumber?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can't tell if he's angry or disappointed or just surprised. Maybe all three.
"Franco," he says finally. "He handles most of the renovation work in the village. I'll give you his number."
"Thank you."
"Are you certain about this?"
"I am."
"Why?"
It’s complicated, but I settle for a simple truth.
"Because I didn't travel across the world to abandon my house at the first sign of difficulty. I came here to prove I could handle whatever life threw at me. I can't do that from your guest cottage."
Something flickers across his face that might be respect. Or it might be irritation. With Enzo, it's hard to tell.
"Very well," he says. "I'll arrange for Franco to meet you at the house this afternoon."
"Thank you."
"And I'll have Emilio provide you with the mechanic's information."
"I appreciate it."
I finish my coffee and stand up, suddenly eager to get this transition over with before I lose my nerve.
"I should go pack.”
"Of course."
“And I’m sorry if I caused you unnecessary trouble.”
“You didn’t.”
He doesn't offer to help, which is probably for the best. I need to do this myself, to prove to both of us that I can.
Packing doesn't take long since I barely had time to unpack in the first place. The cottage still looks perfect when I'm done, like I was never there at all. Which is probably appropriate.
Enzo drives me back to the village without much conversation, and I spend the short trip looking out the window at the landscape I'm choosing to call home.
When we pull up in front of my dark house, I realize something.
This is where I belong. Not because it's easy or comfortable or makes sense, but because it's my home.
"Having second thoughts?" Enzo asks as we sit in the car looking at the broken shutters and weedy front steps.
"No," I say, and mean it. "This is where I want to be. I was thinking about all the things I need to do."
He carries my suitcases to the front door and waits while I unlock it with my medieval key. The interior is exactly as uninviting as it was when I left. Cold stone, musty air, and shadows that seem ominous in the weak light filtering through dirty windows.
I smile anyway when I step inside.
"Franco will be here at two o'clock," Enzo tells me. "He'll assess what needs to be done first."
"Thank you. What should I expect in terms of cost?"
"We'll discuss that after Franco provides estimates."
He means he'll pay for it, which is generous but also maintains my dependence on him. I need to figure out how to handle that conversation when the time comes.
"I should let you get settled," he says, but he doesn't immediately move toward the door.
"Enzo?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For understanding why this is important to me."
"You're welcome."
He pauses in the doorway like he wants to say something else, but then apparently thinks better of it.
"Call if you need anything," he says instead.
"I will."
After he leaves, I try to convince myself I've made the right decision. It's going to be uncomfortable and more expensive than I can afford.
I set down my suitcases and look around at my disaster of a house with fresh eyes. This is my project now. My responsibility, my challenge, my opportunity to prove that Madison Sullivan can make something beautiful out of chaos.
Time to get to work.