Chapter 11 – Almeria
There’s something dangerous about silence when it’s shared with someone you’re trying not to want.
The mansion is quiet tonight—eerily so. Luca’s asleep. The staff have gone to bed. And somewhere down the hall, Gaspare is probably reading through documents, strategizing his next move like he always does. Calm. Cold. Collected.
I’ve come to look forward to the nights he spends here, unlike before when I tried to discourage him from thinking about it. I tell myself that I feel more comfortable and secure when he’s around now, but I know that’s a lie.
I just feel better knowing he’s here than in some other lady’s arms. I have no reason to think Gaspare is like that. He hasn’t given me reason to.
But after that gala? I’m double-guessing a lot.
I should be in bed, too.
But my mind won’t shut off.
It hasn’t stopped replaying the gala. That night. The way the entire room seemed to tilt on its axis the moment we walked in together. The way Gaspare’s hand fit perfectly at the small of my back, and how every woman in that room looked at him like he belonged to them—and then turned to me with quiet, venom-laced curiosity.
And the worst part?
The worst part was that I cared.
I hated how I cared.
I hated how I wanted to claw my nails into the arm of the blonde in the sequined dress who laughed just a little too loudly when she leaned in to talk to him.
I hated how I felt like I’d been claimed—and how I didn’t entirely hate that either.
It’s madness. This whole arrangement. This man.
And yet… I’m still here.
I sit curled on the edge of the balcony, a blanket wrapped tightly around me, staring out at the gardens. The night air is cool, scented with jasmine and stillness.
But my heart isn’t still. It’s loud. Erratic.
Another scent fills my nostrils. Dandelions. I should plant more of those soon.
I don’t go to the shop as often as I used to before, because I now live very far away from it. But one of the staff Gaspare gave me runs it now. And she’s doing a very good job at it. Even better than I did if I do say so myself.
The building even looks different from what it used to be when I was there. A good kind of different.
It helps that she enjoys it too. From the daily report she gives me, we should be hitting our first million in sales by the end of the year. I make a mental note to go there more often in the coming month.
I touch the chain of the necklace I wore the night of the gala, absentmindedly rolling the pendant between my fingers, my thoughts drifting away from my shop. It was a gift from Gaspare. Not a bribe, not a threat. Just… a gift. One he gave me without ceremony, just a quiet box left on my vanity with a note in his handwriting:
For you. Just because I see you.
That note did something to me.
I’ve tried not to think about what it meant. I’ve tried not to imagine what his eyes might’ve looked like when he wrote it.
But the walls I’ve spent so long building around myself? They’re cracking.
And I can’t tell if it’s him… or me.
I remember the way he looked at me across the ballroom on the night of the gala. That quiet intensity that always made me feel like the only person in the room. But also like a target. Like I could be either adored or annihilated.
And when another woman touched his arm—just a simple touch—I felt something flare in my chest. Possession.
Jealousy.
Not the sick kind. Not the twisted envy I’d seen in others. This was something sharper. It felt like the kind of jealousy that comes from having bled for someone.
From having survived someone.
From knowing they’ve already carved out a place in your soul, whether you wanted them to or not.
I’d watched him laugh politely at something that woman said, and in that moment, all I could think was: He’s mine. Even if it’s fake. He’s mine right now.
And the shame that followed made me burn.
It’s not just the proximity that’s breaking me.
It’s the way I feel when he’s near.
I shouldn’t want him. Not after what happened. Not after the alley. Not after the betrayal. But somehow, the pieces of him now don’t match the man who walked away from me back then.
He’s patient. Present. Tender in ways I don’t trust.
And worse?
He makes me feel again.
Things I tried to bury. Things I thought were dead inside me.
When he touches me—even by accident—I feel like I’m on fire.
I’ve felt this way since he took me for the first time, being gentle and ensuring I derived as much pleasure from the experience as he did.
And when he looks at me with that quiet reverence, I don’t know what to do with it.
Because part of me wants to lean into it. To melt.
The other part wants to run until my feet bleed.
I rise from the balcony chair and make my way back inside, wrapping the blanket tighter around me like it might protect me from my own thoughts.
Gaspare is seated in the reading lounge. I should’ve known. A tumbler of something amber in his hand, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair mussed like he ran his hands through it one too many times.
He looks up when I enter.
His eyes flicker with surprise. And then something softer.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“No.”
Please, don’t ask why I can’t sleep. Because I don’t trust myself to tell a lie right now.
He doesn’t press. Just gestures to the empty seat across from him.
I hesitate.
Then sit.
It’s another reminder that I enjoy his company. Crave it even. I would rather walk on hot coals than be in the same space as Gaspare.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying.
“You looked beautiful at the gala,” he says suddenly.
I swallow.
“You’ve been saying that since the night of the gala,” I remind him.
“Truth should be spoken more frequently so lies don’t have a place to rest and fester.”
His voice is quiet. Certain.
And dangerous.
Because every time he says things like that, I believe him a little more.
And I can’t afford to.
I lean back in the chair, staring into the fire crackling softly behind the glass.
“What are we doing, Gaspare?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“This marriage. This—” I wave a hand between us. “It’s not fake anymore. At least not all of it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
And that scares me more than if he had.
“I need to know what this is,” I say. “Because if I start believing it’s real, and you’re still thinking of me as a strategic move, I—”
“You’re not,” he cuts in.
His voice is rough. Barely restrained.
“You’re not a move. You’re not a piece. You’re… Almeria.”
My breath catches.
He leans forward.
“You’re the only thing in my life I didn’t plan for. And the only thing I don’t want to lose.”
I want to believe him.
But the memory of that diary—of how vulnerable I was when he found it, and how cruelly he used that vulnerability—still haunts me.
So I say, “The last time you found out how I felt about you, I ended up broken in an alley.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him.
“Almeria—”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” I say quickly. “I’m saying it because I need to protect myself. I can’t survive that kind of betrayal again. I won’t.”
He doesn’t speak.
And maybe that says more than anything else could.
I rise to leave.
But he stops me.
Not with words.
With a touch.
His fingers wrap around my wrist—gentle, barely there. But enough to make me stop.
“I know I hurt you,” he says, voice tight. “And I won’t ask you to forget it. But if you ever decide to give me another chance… I swear I’ll never take it for granted.”
I pull my wrist free. Not roughly.
But not softly, either.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper.
He nods.
But his eyes never leave mine.
And something in me aches at the way he looks at me.
Like I’m the last good thing he’ll ever get.
Later that night, lying awake in bed, I stare at the ceiling and think about all the things I wanted to say.
That I care for him more than I should.
That I hate how much I want him.
That when he looks at me, my whole world tilts.
But most of all, I think about Luca.
Because no matter what I feel—no matter how much my heart wants to believe—he comes first.
He always will.
And if loving Gaspare means putting my son at risk again… then I’ll walk away.
Even if it kills me.