Chapter Twenty-six #2
“You’re going to be an incredible mother, even if you choose yourself. Even if you choose happiness.” His breath catches. “They don’t know how lucky they are,” he whispers. After a beat, barely audible, “But I know how lucky I am.”
“I want to be better than my parents,” I whisper, the words barely audible.
“I need my children to be raised by a strong woman. Someone who can sacrifice her own happiness if that’s what it takes for them to grow up with good morals.
With values.” My throat burns. “How can I do that if I choose you instead of my morality? How can I be an example if I’m okay with murder, as long as it’s done by you? ”
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.
I can see the tears in his eyes, and somehow that hurts more than anything else tonight.
“That’s not fair, love,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t fall for a good man, you fell for me.
” He swallows hard. “And you still let me hope.” His eyes flicker to my mouth, then back, wounded.
“You know I can’t escape this life. It’s carved into me.
” His voice breaks despite himself. “And now you want me to step back. Out of their lives. Out of yours.” A bitter exhale. “Because I’m not built right.”
The words hit me straight in the chest, stealing the breath from my lungs.
It should feel right. Standing my ground should feel right. But it doesn’t. It feels wrong in a way that makes my stomach twist and my heart ache.
What if he’s right?
What if it doesn’t matter what others think? What if happiness is the only thing that should ever matter? What if choosing ourselves, choosing love, choosing survival, is enough?
I close my eyes, drowning in my thoughts.
I want my son to be like him so badly it scares me.
I want him to be loving the way his father loves, fierce, absolute, unyielding.
Loyal. Devoted. Willing to destroy the world to protect what’s his.
I want my son to never feel weak, to never feel powerless, to know what it means to stand guard over the people he loves.
And my daughter. . . God, my daughter. I want her to choose her happiness every single time.
I want her to be strong, fearless, unapologetic.
I want her to protect herself, to live freely, to love without asking permission, to never care what the world thinks of her.
I want her to be happy in ways I never was.
So why does it have to be this hard?
Because I also want them to think before ending lives.
I want them to understand mercy. Consequences.
I want them to be able to sleep at night without ghosts watching them from the corners of the room.
I want them to live with themselves. I want to believe there is another way, maybe not perfect, maybe not clean, but different. And I need to try. Even if it hurts.
My hand lifts on its own and touches his face. He closes his eyes instantly, like the contact undoes him. He takes my hand, holds it between his, kisses it slowly, reverently. And my heart breaks all over again, splintering into pieces I don’t know how to gather.
“I’m not asking you this,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I’m not asking you to change who you are.”
His grip tightens, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I just need some time,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes and searches my face, trying to read something I don’t even understand myself. “You need time,” he says slowly. “Time where I’m not there?” he asks, and I can’t tell what’s behind his expression, fear, anger, pain, or all of it at once.
“Yes.”
The word leaves my mouth harder than I meant it to. Sharper. Final.
“I love you,” he says, desperate, like the words are the only thing keeping him upright.
My eyes burn again. Of course they do. “I love you too.”
He looks at me like I might vanish if he blinks.
Like if he loosens his grip on this moment, I’ll slip through his fingers forever.
“I’ll wait,” he says quietly, like it’s a vow carved into bone.
“I’ll always be here.” His voice cracks, betraying him.
“You call, and I’ll fucking show up. You need anything, I’ll make it happen. ” A beat. “Just don’t shut me out.”
He inhales sharply, as if steadying something dark inside him.
“You need time away from me? Fine,” he says flatly.
“I’ll give you time.” His eyes harden, something dangerous settling in.
“But you know what I won’t give you?” The warning crawls up my spine.
“I won’t give you the freedom to be with someone else.
I won’t give you the freedom to fuck someone else.
” His breath turns rough. “And I will never, ever, give you the freedom to love someone else.” He leans in, swallowing the space between us. “Is that fucking clear, baby?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
Because I don’t want that freedom either. Because even if I step away from him, I want the chain to stay wrapped around my wrist, invisible but unbreakable. I don’t want anyone else. I never have.
Then his phone rings.
The sound slices through the moment like a blade. I catch the name on the screen before I can stop myself.
Aurora.
My stomach drops. I almost forgot about her. When did she get his number? Why does she even have it?
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, already turning away, already retreating into myself. But he feels it. He always does. His hand snaps around my wrist, grounding me, holding me still.
He answers immediately and puts the call on speaker without hesitation.
“Yes?” he says.
“It worked,” her voice comes through, smooth, confident, annoyingly beautiful. “Paolo asked my father for you to be included in the Council meetings. It left him shocked.” There’s satisfaction there, barely hidden. “And Paolo disagreed with almost everything my father said.”
“Thanks,” Lorenzo replies, flat, emotionless. “Keep me updated.”
“Sure,” she says lightly. “Bye.”
The call ends.
He looks at me, annoyed now. “Ready to jump to conclusions?”
“That’s another reason this isn’t working,” I say quietly.
He raises an eyebrow, genuinely confused.
“You see me as a broken doll,” I go on, my voice steady even as my chest aches.
“Not as your partner. You don’t trust me.
Or maybe you don’t think it’s important to include me in your life.
You don’t ask my opinion. You don’t let me in.
” I lift my chin. “I’m Serena Evelyn Beaumont.
I survived being kidnapped. I survived three months in captivity while pregnant.
I am not some fragile thing you need to hide behind glass. ”
I’m telling him. But I’m also reminding myself.
“I know you’re not,” he says softly. “I thought you wanted space. I didn’t think you wanted to be involved in any of this.”
And the worst part is that it makes sense. I swallow.
“I don’t,” I admit, irritated, exhausted, overwhelmed by everything at once. “Now please take me home. I think the dinner’s over anyway.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
I scoff, despite myself.
I wasn’t wrong.
I was strong enough to survive.
I will heal with intention. I will face the nightmares and reclaim my body, my mind, my future. I will learn to tell memory from dream. I will move forward, softly, fiercely, on my own terms.
I will not live in the shadows.
I will not be defined by blood or ghosts.