Chapter 12 Beatrice
BEATRICE
Three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since the gala — since the moment that rearranged everything I thought I understood.
Matteo. This agreement.
Giacomo. And every jagged thing in between.
Since that night, I’ve started sleeping with the lights on. I’ve never feared the dark, but now it presses on me in ways I can’t explain, like a hand over my mouth.
I hate it.
Somewhere beyond the stall, the soft trill of a violin leaks into the tile room — wrong, eerie.
This place was never meant to witness blood or fear, yet here I am, feeling both settle beneath my skin like unwelcome shadows.
Giacomo hasn’t brought up that night—well, not directly anyway. But the silence is worse than his anger. Now it feels like his rage is just simmering beneath the surface of his skin. It stretches across our dinners like unspoken threats.
I feel like I’m walking on eggshells.
I try to put on my best smile, make sure I play the role he wants me to play.
Today, we’re having lunch at a place he likes—Italian, upscale, linen napkins, and a wine list older than me. It’s so fancy it makes me feel out of place. But I sit pretty, and I speak when he speaks to me.
The waiter brings the drinks. I smile politely, just as rehearsed. Maybe one day the smile will reach my eyes, but for now my lips are good enough.
Giacomo doesn’t notice the difference.
“We need to finalize the guest list,” he says, sipping his wine. “The invitations go out next week. Everyone is talking about the wedding.”
I nod, cutting into a salad I’m not hungry for. “I’ll look at it tonight. I also need to contact my mother and make sure she goes for her dress fitting.”
He waves me off. “Yes, and make sure she fixes her hair. Her roots are beginning to show, and I don’t think that would be ideal for the pictures.”
My fork hits my plate a little too hard when he says that. But I do my best not to react. I lift my head, meet his eyes, and force a polite smile.
“Of course.” If I could fling this fork at his face, I would. “How was your day?” I need a quick and easy change of subject.
“It was good. I just locked in a new project with one of my contacts in China.” There’s a glint in his eyes that throws me for a second. “How was your day?”
I swallow my lettuce. “It was good. I had a meeting with the wedding planner, and then I went for a run.”
“How’s the rest of the planning going?”
“It’s fine. Still a lot to get done, but it’s all coming together.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Just ‘fine?’”
Before I can answer, the waiter returns with a basket of bread.
“Here you go, ma’am.” He smiles and sets the basket down. “I added in some gluten-free options just in case.”
“Thank you so much,” I glance down at his name badge, “Marcus.”
I hear Giacomo clear his throat, and I tear my eyes away from Marcus to look at him. His jaw is locked in place, and his hands are balled into fists around his cutlery.
Marcus doesn’t seem to catch the shift in energy. He walks away from the table, leaving me with the bubbling wrath of my fiancé.
No. I can’t deal with this right now.
I place my napkin on my lap and excuse myself quickly before he has a chance to blow a gasket. “I’m going to the restroom.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything, and I get up in peace. I have no idea what that look he gave me was about, but I want nothing to do with whatever narrative he’s cooking up in his head.
The moment I step into the ladies’ room, I finally exhale.
My hands shake as I brace myself against the sink. I don’t even know what I’m looking at in the mirror anymore. The fear permeating my pupils is unsettling. My reflection feels like a stranger wearing my skin.
“Breathe, Bea. Breathe.” I can feel the panic creeping in, tightening its grip. I hold onto the cool stone of the basin.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I lazily take it out. I breathe a little easier when my mother’s name flashes across the screen.
I know whenever she texts me there has to be some good news.
Mama: Hey baby, just got approved to go to level 2 of rehab. Getting stronger every day.
My heart warms. She has no idea just how much these messages heal me. It’s in moments like this, moments where everything feels heavy and fragile, that I remember why I endure all of this.
For her.
I go to reply to the message, but then the door bursts open.
Giacomo storms in, nostrils flared.
“Giacomo?” My voice jumps. “This is the women’s bathroom—what are you doing?”
His eyes drag from my face down to the phone in my hand. His pupils widen with barely contained fury. Thinking it’s best not to provoke him, I slip my phone quickly into my bag.
“Who was that?” Giacomo’s voice is low. But it’s the kind of quiet that hides a blade behind it.
I blink. “What?”
“Your phone. Who was on the phone?”
“My mom,” I say, shifting my weight, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know I talk to her every day.”
His eyes narrow, sharp with accusation. “Show me.”
He reaches for my bag, and I jerk it behind me.
“No. You can’t just grab my things.”
“Why not?” He steps closer, invading my space like he owns the right to it. “Who were you talking to? Another man? Are you whoring yourself out now?”
I flinch at the venom in his voice. “Do you hear yourself? Why would you even say that? It was my mom. I have nothing to hide.”
“Then give me the bag.”
He moves so fast I barely have time to blink. He grabs for my bag and yanks hard, but I get a good grip with both my hands and pull it back to me.
“Giacomo, stop. This is ridiculous.”
“Give me the bag, Beatrice.”
“No.”
The word slices the air between us. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and I know this isn’t about the call; it’s about the waiter outside, the attention, the imagined slight he can’t let go.
“Give it to me!”
“Back off!” I tug the bag toward me, but he’s already latched onto the strap.
We’re locked in a silent tug-of-war, the bag jerking violently between us. He’s not even looking at me anymore; he’s staring at the bag as if it contains proof of some betrayal he’s invented. I try to pull harder, shifting my weight, and that’s when it happens.
The bag slips.
The strap whips.
The corner catches my cheekbone with a brutal crack.
A burst of pain shoots straight through my face, bright and shocking. I gasp, dropping the bag and cupping my cheek with both hands.
“You hurt me!” My voice comes out raw, a stunned, shaking scream that seems to freeze the entire bathroom.
Silence swallows the room.
He stares at me—eyes blown wide, mouth parting in horror—as if only now realizing what his jealousy has caused.
“Shit—amore, I’m so sorry.” His words tumble out fast, breathless. “I didn’t mean to. Amore, I swear—”
He drops the bag instantly, reaches for me, tries to touch my face like suddenly he remembers tenderness.
I recoil so sharply his hand stops mid-air. Fear and fury crash through me in one volcanic surge.
“Don’t.”
His hand freezes mid-air. His eyes flicker with guilt… and remnants of that same anger.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, softer now, as if lowering his voice could shrink the violence he created. “I lost my temper.”
“It’s too late for sorry.” My voice shakes, but not from fear— from rage and the shock still ringing through me. “Get out.”
“Bea—”
“Out.”
“Leave before I scream bloody murder.” I pour every ounce of anger and hatred I’ve bottled up for months into those words. “You are not the man I thought you were.”
“Beatrice, it was an accident.”
He tries to reach for me again, but I pull away. “Okay, I won’t touch you, but at least let me take you to the doctor so he can look at your cheek.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I need you to leave. I need space and time.”
For a moment, I think he might say something else. Beg. Threaten. A combination of both?
But instead, he turns on his heel—no words, no sound—and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing alone in the tiled room with adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I don’t know how long I stand there without moving. Blood rushes past my ears like a raging wave.
The silence after he leaves is deafening.
No footsteps. No voices. Just the echo of the door clicking shut and my own heartbeat pounding against my ribs.
I crumble onto the cold tile floor, one hand pressed to my chest as I try to slow my racing heart.
I force down the fear and the anxiety, let the anger take over. But now—in the thick, suffocating aftermath—they all mix together. A toxic concoction that leaves me heaving, gasping for air.
I stood up to him. I held my ground. So why do I feel like I can barely stand now? Why is my body trembling? Is it fear? Anger? Disbelief?
Maybe all.
I reach for my purse. With shaking fingers, I dig through lipstick and trinkets until I find my phone… only for it to slip, hit the floor, and skid under the sink.
I crawl after it. When my fingers finally wrap around the case, I unlock it with trembling hands.
My thumb hovers over his number—the very number I’d considered deleting only days ago.
I don’t think.
I just press call.
It rings once.
“Beatrice?”
My mouth opens, but at first, nothing comes out. My heart thrums violently—one… two… three…
Then everything spills out at once.
“Matteo… can you come pick me up?” I whisper, my voice breaking as tears return, spilling faster now. “Please. I’m—I’m at Padrino’s.”
There’s a beat of silence. I hear him exhale sharply, like he’s already moving.
“I’m on my way,” he says instantly.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”
“You did the right thing.”
He hangs up before I can fall apart any further.
I sit there on the floor, alone in a restaurant bathroom, clutching my phone to my chest like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.
I don’t know how long I sit there, clinging to my phone like a lifeline. But somewhere out there, footsteps are moving fast. A storm is coming, and his name is Matteo.