Chapter 2 Beatrice
BEATRICE
Two weeks earlier…
They don’t warn you how fast the light disappears. One moment you’re walking in sunshine; the next, shadows have swallowed you whole.
“It’s going to be a good day tomorrow,” I tell my reflection, twisting a towel around my damp hair like a crown. “The job’s already mine. This is just a formality. I know it.”
No more hospital bills. No more treatment centers. My mother is finally well. And for the first time in years, I’m free to think about my own life — a small, glittering luxury that until now has been nothing but a distant dream.
Tomorrow is my first interview with La Rouge, downtown. Not just any job — a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
La Rouge isn’t just a fashion house; it’s the fashion house. This position may not be glamorous, but it’s a stepping stone. An essential stepping stone.
My eyes catch the light, turning warm caramel as they always do when I’m happy. “We’re allowed to hope now, Beatrice. It’s okay to dream.”
Just months ago, I thought September would be spent planning my mother’s funeral. Then, almost absurdly, a job offer appeared — money, security, and the freedom I’d only dared to imagine.
Freedom.
A word I used to take for granted. Now it feels like oxygen.
I’ve rehearsed my lines. Picked the perfect heels to impress Louise LeFounde, La Rouge’s creative director. My portfolio is laid out on the nightstand, waiting.
“Tomorrow will be perfect,” I whisper into the thick silence of my room. “You got this, Bea.”
But then a knock splinters my train of thought. I turn toward the door, my heart lurching in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Beatrice,” my father Aruto calls. He doesn’t sound like himself. “Please come to the living room.”
My stomach clenches — an automatic reaction after seven years of bad news delivered in that room.
I try not to think too much of it. There’s no reason to worry. My mother is fine; she’s baking cookies as we speak.
I cinch the towel tighter around my damp hair and walk to the door. I wait a beat, take a breath, and open it.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t speak. His red-rimmed eyes lock on mine and I freeze.
“Did something happen to Mom?”
“No, no, no.” He shakes his head too fast, too hard. “Your mother is fine. I… I just need you to come downstairs. We need to discuss something.”
My brows knit. “Why can’t we just talk here, Dad? I have an early morning tomorrow. Remember? I told you about the interview—”
“Please just come downstairs, Bea. It’s important. And we have a guest.”
“A guest?”
“Yes.” His jaw tightens, his shoulders stiff. “But get dressed. Put on that white sundress of yours. It’s more appropriate for this.”
“Sundress? Dad, it’s almost eight at night.”
“Just do it, Beatrice. I don’t want to fight you on this.”
“Fight me?” I stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “What the hell is going on?”
He won’t meet my eyes. His shirt is wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. There’s a tremor in his jaw I haven’t seen since the night Mama went in for emergency surgery.
“Dad… it’s eight in the evening.” My stomach flips hard. Something about all of this feels wrong. “What’s going on?”
“Just get dressed and come downstairs.” His voice cracks, and then he turns away. “I’ll explain everything when you’re there.”
But I don’t get dressed. I don’t wait.
I follow him down the hallway, chest tight, heart thudding a warning in my ribs.
As he starts down the stairs, the scent hits me — whiskey. Cheap, sharp. Clinging to him like a second skin.
He’s drinking.
My father never drinks. Not unless he’s teetering on the edge of despair. Or madness. And judging by the wildness in his eyes, this is both.
Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
At the foot of the stairs, I round the corner into the living room—
And stop cold.
I see him the moment I step into the living room.
A man. Sitting in my mother’s chair.
He sits with one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.
The cut of his suit is too clean for this room; a thin leather strap is around his wrist—an expensive watch. The air around him carries the dry burn of cigar smoke and polished leather, the kind of scent money wears when it can afford not to shout.
He’s out of place among the old vintage furniture that decorates my home. His suit looks like it costs at least half the rent for this house. His short brown hair is slicked back, his face clean-shaven, giving him a youthful glow — but I can still tell he’s years older than me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Feriama,” my father says in a low tone. He crosses to the loveseat and lowers himself onto it.
I remain standing, unsure of what exactly I’ve just walked into.
Mr. Feriama doesn’t take his gaze off me. His eyes — glacial blue — bore into the depths of my soul, as if he’s trying to strip me down to my very foundation. It’s unnerving, throwing me off for a moment or two.
“Ah,” he says, voice low and smooth. “The infamous Beatrice. Ciao, cara. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you — officially.”
His voice is velvet, but underneath it there’s a tone that makes every instinct in me rise to attention.
I don’t trust him. Not even for a second.
He’s mesmerizing, but in the way a cobra in the grass is mesmerizing.
“You’re in my mother’s chair.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. “I’d appreciate it if you got up and sat elsewhere, Mr. Feriama. She’s in the kitchen, but she’ll be out soon enough.”
The way I say his name isn’t respectful. If anything, it’s mocking.
But I don’t care. The man rubs me the wrong way, and I’ve barely said ten words to him.
His blue eyes stay locked on mine. Then he lets out a low chuckle.
“You’re one hell of a spitfire, aren’t you? I knew there was a reason you caught my eye at the coffee shop that day.” He rubs his chin with his knuckles, still studying me. “Aruto, you didn’t tell me your daughter was such a spitfire.”
His words catch me off guard. “Coffee shop? You mean Sandy’s? The coffee shop I work at?”
Mr. Feriama gives me one curt nod. “You served me an iced Americano and slipped me a biscuit. You asked about my day, then went on with the rest of yours.”
I try to think back over my last few weeks at Sandy’s, but I serve so many people, interact with so many faces, that they all blur together.
“I’m the one who tipped you five hundred dollars.”
“You left a five-hundred dollar tip.” It lands like a key turning.
I remember him, but only vaguely. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds.
I’d been stunned when I saw the bill, stunned again when I realized he’d left before I could thank him.
I’d wanted to tell him it was too much. Instead, I’d taken that same five hundred dollars and used it to buy the shoes for my interview.
“Ah, now you remember me.” His lips split into a wicked smile. “It’s lovely to see you again, cara mia.”
He rises, slow and deliberate, like a cobra lifting its head from the grass. His suit is tailored with lethal precision, every line sharpened to fit the part of a menacing CEO with a killer’s mind.
He closes the distance in three long strides. When he’s only an arm’s length away, the scent of his cologne hits me — expensive and sharp, laced with the smoke of cigars.
“You’re even more striking now than you were that overcast day in the coffee shop.” He takes my hand in his, lifts it, and kisses the back of it.
I freeze. My skin prickles, the hairs on the back of my neck rising in alarm.
He lingers, taking his time to release me, his warm breath grazing my skin and sending a shiver down my spine — but not the good kind. Everything about this man puts me on edge.
There’s something wrong with the way he looks at me. Not like a man seeing a woman. But like a man seeing property.
Something to own. Something to claim.
“I’ve waited quite some time to meet you again.”
I rip my hand free and step back, needing space to breathe. My gaze snaps to my father, still sitting on the loveseat, whiskey glass in hand.
“Dad? What’s going on?”
Mr. Feriama turns to my father with a raised eyebrow. “You haven’t told her? Come, Aruto, I would have expected better from you, considering she is your only child.”
“Giacomo, please,” my father starts, hands trembling. He takes one last swig of whiskey before setting the glass on the side table beside him. “Can I just have a word with my daughter, in private? I understand we have an agreement, but you came unexpectedly and I—”
Mr. Feriama lifts a hand, silencing him with a casual flick of his wrist.
“You should have prepared her before my arrival. No wonder the girl looks like she wants to run for the hills. She has no idea what’s going on.”
He turns his gaze back to me, eyes raking over my face. His hand lifts, reaching for me. My little flinch doesn’t deter him. He brushes the back of his knuckles against my cheek.
“Don’t be afraid of me, cara. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
I don’t believe him.
There’s something reptilian in his gaze. The kind of stare that stills you just long enough before the viper strikes.
“Aruto,” he says, still keeping his eyes on me. “Tell your daughter why I’m here. She needs to know.”
I blink. “Know what?”
I turn my attention to my father. He swallows hard, his eyes flashing with shame before he looks away.
“Dad…” My own throat feels tight. “What do I need to know?”
The silence between us is deafening. So loud I can hear the pounding of my heart in my chest.
“Mama’s surgery… wasn’t cheap,” he says at last.
“I know.” My voice drops to a whisper as blood rushes past my ears like a storm. “What does that have to do with why he’s here?”
My father gulps. Mr. Feriama gives him a small nod, urging him to continue.
“I didn’t have enough for her surgery. They were asking for over half a million dollars, and our medical aid wouldn’t cover it.”
The room falls away until the only thing in focus is my father.
“I needed the money, Bea. Otherwise your mother was going to die and I… I can’t live without her.”