Chapter 16 Simeone
Simeone
The crash reverberates through the house—crystal meeting reinforced glass in a symphony of destruction.
Loriana’s voice follows, weaving profanity through languages like a spell.
Through the grainy monitor, she’s all movement and rage, dark hair catching the light as she prowls the confines of our bedroom.
Beautiful. Magnificent. Completely mine.
And absolutely livid about the new reality I’ve constructed around her.
“Sir?” Tiziano’s voice crackles through the intercom, carefully neutral. “The new security protocols are fully operational.”
“Good.” I lean back in my leather chair, fascinated by the raw passion radiating from the woman on my screens. “How’s she adapting to the additional measures?”
“She’s... creative in her attempts to circumvent them.” There’s a dry note in his voice that suggests my girl has been keeping everyone on their toes. “This morning she tried to bribe the kitchen staff to smuggle her out in a laundry cart.”
Despite everything, I smile. Even trapped, she refuses to surrender. It’s one of the qualities that drew me to her—that unbreakable core of defiance that makes conquering her so intoxicating.
The vase explodes against the wall in a shower of crystal fragments, and I feel my cock harden watching her lose control. There’s something primitively satisfying about her violence, about knowing that underneath all that magnificent fury, she’s exactly where she belongs.
Under my complete control.
My phone buzzes with updates from the security team I’ve tripled since yesterday. Motion sensors in every room, cameras in every corner, guards at every possible exit. The estate has become a fortress designed around one simple principle: nothing gets in or out without my explicit permission.
Especially her.
“Sir?” A knock interrupts my surveillance. Dr. Dolores Scalise enters without waiting for permission, her medical bag in hand and disapproval written across her aristocratic features.
“Doctor.” I don’t look away from the screens. “How is she?”
“Physically? Perfect. The baby is developing normally, her vitals are excellent.” Dr. Scalise sets her bag down with pointed precision. “Psychologically? That’s another matter entirely.”
“Explain.”
“She’s exhibiting classic symptoms of captivity syndrome.
Anxiety, depression, violent outbursts alternating with periods of complete withdrawal.
” The doctor’s voice carries thirty years of authority.
“Simeone, I’ve delivered babies for half the powerful families in Italy.
I know the difference between protective custody and psychological imprisonment. ”
“She’s being protected, not imprisoned.”
“Is she? Because from my examination, she’s showing signs of severe stress that could impact the pregnancy.” Dr. Scalise pulls out a file. “Elevated cortisol levels, disrupted sleep patterns, loss of appetite. Her body is treating this environment as a constant threat.”
The words hit me like ice water. The idea that my protection might harm our child makes something cold and sharp twist in my chest.
“What are you recommending?”
“Mental stimulation. Purpose. Some degree of autonomy, even if it’s carefully controlled.” She meets my gaze directly. “Right now, you’re not protecting her—you’re systematically breaking down everything that makes her who she is.”
I study the woman on the screen, noting for the first time the subtle changes I’ve been too focused on control to see. The way her shoulders curve inward slightly. The listless quality to her movements between bursts of rage. The fact that she’s lost weight when she should be gaining it.
“She’ll get tutors, personal trainers, every amenity—”
“Those are distractions, not purpose.” Dr. Scalise’s voice sharpens. “Simeone, intelligent women don’t thrive in golden cages. They wither. And a withered woman can’t give you the strong heir you’re expecting.”
The clinical assessment cuts deeper than it should. I’ve been so focused on eliminating external variables that I haven’t considered the internal ones I might be creating.
“What would you suggest?”
“Give her something to manage. Something that feels important, even if you’re controlling every aspect of it.” The doctor closes her file. “The illusion of choice is sometimes more powerful than actual freedom.”
After she leaves, I return my attention to the monitors. Loriana has moved from destruction to something worse—she’s sitting perfectly still on the edge of our bed, staring at nothing with empty eyes that make alarm bells ring in my head.
That emptiness is more dangerous than all her fury combined.
I take the stairs three at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs with sudden urgency. When I push through the bedroom door, she doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.
“Stellina.”
Nothing. She continues staring at the wall like I don’t exist.
“Loriana.” I move closer, noting the way she flinches slightly when I enter her peripheral vision. “Talk to me.”
“About what?” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “The weather? The lovely view from my cell? The fascinating new security protocols you’ve implemented?”
The bitter resignation in her tone is worse than screaming. I’ve heard that voice before—from broken people who’ve given up fighting because they know it’s useless.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“No?” She finally turns to look at me, and the emptiness in her brown eyes stops my breath. “Then leave. Walk out that door and don’t come back for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s different—”
“Is it?” She stands with fluid grace, but there’s something fragile about her posture. “Because from where I’m sitting, if I can’t leave and you won’t leave, that makes this a very beautiful prison.”
“This is about keeping you safe.”
“This is about keeping me controlled.” She moves to the windows, pressing her palm against the bulletproof glass. “Do you know what I realized today, Simeone? I can’t remember the last time I made a single decision about my own life.”
“You make decisions—”
“About what? Whether to have the salmon or the chicken for dinner? Whether to wear the blue dress or the green one?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Those aren’t choices. Those are the illusion of choice.”
I watch her reflection in the glass, noting the way her shoulders shake slightly. Not with rage this time—with something that looks dangerously close to defeat.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need to feel human again.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I need to make a decision that matters, even if it’s small. I need to have some corner of my life that belongs to me.”
The vulnerability in her admission makes something crack in my chest. I’ve been so focused on possession that I’ve forgotten the difference between owning something and destroying it.
“What kind of decision?”
“Let me redesign part of the estate. Give me a project—something I can control from start to finish.” She turns from the window, and there’s a flicker of life in her eyes for the first time in days. “Let me create something instead of just... existing in the spaces you’ve created for me.”
The request is reasonable, manageable, completely within my control. And yet something in me rebels against giving her even this small concession.
“Which part of the estate?”
“The garden pavilion. It’s been empty since I arrived.” Her voice gains strength as she sees I’m considering it. “I could turn it into something useful—a library, an art studio, whatever. Something that’s mine.”
Mine. The word should irritate me, but instead it sends heat pooling through my chest. She wants to claim a piece of my world, mark it with her presence.
“You’d work with my architects, follow all security protocols.”
“Of course.” She moves closer, and I catch the jasmine scent that’s been haunting my dreams. “But the final decisions would be mine. The design, the purpose, the timeline—mine.”
“And this would make you happy?”
“It would make me feel alive again. If only for a bit.” Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, and the simple touch makes my pulse spike. “Simeone, I’m not trying to escape you. I’m trying to survive you.”
The honesty in that admission nearly breaks my resolve completely. She’s not fighting me—she’s fighting for herself, for some small piece of autonomy in a world I’ve completely controlled.
“Fine.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “The pavilion is yours.”
Relief floods her features so intensely that I realize how close I came to losing her completely. Not to escape, but to the kind of slow psychological erosion that leaves nothing but an empty shell.
“Thank you.” She tips her head in gratitude. “You won’t regret this.”
But as I watch her hurry toward the door—the first time I’ve seen her move with purpose in days—I’m already calculating ways to monitor her project whether she likes it or not.
Cameras in the pavilion, background checks on every contractor, approval authority over every decision disguised as helpful suggestions.
She thinks I’m giving her freedom, but I’m simply expanding the boundaries of her cage.
The thought should satisfy me. Instead, it makes something cold settle in my stomach as I remember the emptiness in her eyes just minutes ago.
I return to my office and pull up the pavilion’s architectural plans, already designing the surveillance infrastructure I’ll need.
But my attention keeps drifting to the monitors showing her animated conversation with the head groundskeeper, the life returning to her movements as she gestures toward the empty building.
She’s magnificent when she has purpose. Radiant when she feels useful. Everything I’ve always been drawn to in her—the intelligence, the passion, the unbreakable spirit—it all comes alive when she has something to control.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it makes me want to give her more projects, more decisions, more pieces of my world to claim as her own.
Not because I’m becoming soft, but because a happy Loriana is infinitely more intoxicating than a broken one.
I lean back in my chair and watch her through the cameras, noting every gesture, every smile, every moment of genuine engagement. She’s plotting something in that beautiful head of hers—I can see it in the calculating way she examines the pavilion’s structure.
Good. Let her plot. Let her plan. Let her think she’s gaining ground.
Because at the end of the day, she’s still exactly where I want her—under my roof, carrying my child, completely dependent on my generosity for even the smallest taste of freedom.
The pavilion project will keep her occupied, give her the illusion of autonomy she needs to stay sane and healthy. But it won’t change the fundamental reality of our situation.
She belongs to me now, whether she’s admitted it or not.
And watching her slowly accept that truth—disguised as compromise and collaboration—will be the most exquisite victory of all.
Through the grainy feed, I watch her come back to herself. The way she moves her hands when explaining something to the groundskeeper, the tilt of her head when she’s thinking—these are the details I’ve been starved of, watching her drift through the house like a ghost.
She’ll be happy here, safe here, as long as she never realizes the cage has no visible bars.
The perfect possession disguised as partnership.
My fingers trace the edge of the monitor as she laughs at something the groundskeeper says, the sound carrying through the audio feed like music. She’s exactly where she belongs—in my world, under my protection, playing by my rules.
And she doesn’t even realize she’s already lost.