Chapter 14 Beatrice #2
The doors slide almost closed.
But a hand slips between them.
They reopen—and Matteo walks in.
My pulse stumbles, traitorous and immediate. He keeps a respectful distance, standing behind me, but the elevator suddenly feels smaller, the air thickening with every second of silence.
The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.
He doesn’t speak at first. Neither do I. I keep my eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers, pretending I can’t feel the heat of him behind me, pretending the memory of his hands isn’t already rising like a tide inside my chest.
The elevator hums downward.
Then, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it—he says, “I haven’t been sleeping.”
The admission folds into the confined space, heavy, intimate, unguarded.
I swallow, my voice barely steady. “Neither have I.”
The elevator dings softly as it reaches the ground floor, and the doors slide open with a quiet rush of air. I step forward automatically—ready to escape the tight space, ready to escape the weight of him behind me—when fingers wrap around mine.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Just… stopping me.
My breath catches, the entire world narrowing to the warmth of his skin against mine, the steady pressure of his hand holding me in place. I turn slowly, afraid of what I’ll see, afraid of what I already know I’ll feel.
Matteo is looking at me the way a man looks when he has been holding something inside for far too long. His eyes are dark and wounded and unbearably full—of want, of pain, of a restraint stretched so tightly it feels like the next breath might snap it.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just stand there, suspended in a silence thick enough to drown in.
“Don’t,” I whisper, barely breathing the word.
His fingers loosen instantly, releasing me like it hurts him to do it.
“What happened between us was a mistake,” I say, lying with a steadiness I don’t feel. My pulse slams against my ribs so violently I’m surprised he can’t hear it echo in the elevator walls.
I pull my hand free before I betray myself and walk toward the lobby without looking back, without letting myself see the expression I know he’s wearing.
I don’t have to check to know he isn’t following.
He just stands there, alone in the elevator, and the doors closed between us with the softest hiss—a quiet, final sound that somehow feels louder than anything either of us could have said.
And as I walk across the lobby, the ghost of his touch still burns against my skin, but I steady my breath and pull my mind back to the only thing that matters now— getting out.
I need a plan. A real one. A way out that doesn’t rely on miracles or wishful thinking.
The building doors open and Arthur greets me with his kind, fatherly warmth. “Good morning, Beatrice. You look… beaming today.”
My smile widens, and this time it feels genuine. “It’s a good day, Arthur.”
“With a smile like that, I believe you. Enjoy it.”
I wave goodbye, step outside, and hail a cab. I tell the driver to take me across town—to a bank I know Giacomo has no affiliation with. I refuse to risk him seeing what I am doing, not when I finally have two weeks of freedom to set myself in motion.
Two weeks to save myself. Two weeks to untangle the mess my life has become. Two weeks to reclaim the woman I used to be.
The bank’s marble lobby is cold and impersonal, and my palms are damp by the time I approach the desk and request a loan application.
The amount I write down makes my throat tighten, but this is step one.
If they deny it, I’ll find another avenue.
If that fails, I’ll take a job, any job.
Even the ones I once swore I’d never touch.
I’m in fashion; I know people, I understand value, and I’m not too proud to do what’s needed.
If I have to take freelance work I dislike or join a merchandising team in some soulless brand just to get enough steady income to start repaying him, then so be it. Pride won’t save me. Action will.
I sit across from a loan officer with friendly eyes and a sharp mind. I hand over my paperwork, trying to keep my hands still.
“That is quite a significant amount,” she says, reviewing the forms. “May I ask what you need it for?”
“I need to pay off a debt,” I answer, choosing honesty without details. The less people know, the safer I am.
Her eyes lift slightly, though she does not pry. Her gaze drifts down to the bag resting on my lap—a limited-edition Margo, crocodile skin, gold hardware, one of only fifty ever made. I can see the recognition pass through her expression; she knows exactly what she’s looking at.
“You’re aware,” she says quietly, “that what you own could almost cover this… several times over.”
My stomach knots. “I’m aware.”
“Yet you won’t sell it.”
“No,” I say softly, fingers tightening around the handle. “I can’t.”
Because selling it would mean accepting the gift, accepting the tie, accepting the debt. And I refuse. Every luxury he’s given me feels like another link in a chain disguised as silk.
The woman studies me for a long moment, and something unspoken settles between us. Understanding. Feminine intuition. A recognition of a truth I didn’t say aloud.
“All right,” she murmurs, turning back to her computer. “I’ll push this through. I can’t promise approval, but I’ll try.”
Relief washes through me so intensely I have to steady myself. “Thank you. Truly.”
She nods, clicking through requirements, outlining documents I’ll need to gather. It’s overwhelming, but I don’t flinch. Hard paths don’t scare me anymore. Staying scares me more.
When we finish, I rise and shake her hand. She leans slightly closer.
“If I were you,” she says gently, “I would keep every safety net you can. Even the ones you don’t want to consider.”
A warning wrapped as advice. I nod, understanding every word she hasn’t said.
Outside, the cold air hits my skin, and the weight on my chest lifts just a fraction. It’s not freedom—not yet—but it’s movement. It’s momentum. It’s the first step in choosing myself.
My phone buzzes.
Giacomo: Missing you so much. I just saw a gelato cart and thought of how much you love it.
Sweet words. Empty warmth. A man trying to be soft with hands that only know how to hold tightly.
I stare at the message, but nothing inside me softens. If anything, my stomach churns with the hollow ache of someone pretending to be loved in the right way.
I wish I could be the kind of woman who makes this work, who bends instead of breaks, who can swallow her voice and call it devotion. But that has never been me. It never will be.
I crave agency. I crave independence.
I crave a life lived on my terms—not bought, not borrowed, not controlled.
And for the first time, I believe I might actually take it.
I step outside the bank and hail a cab, the wind cutting across my cheeks with a clarity that matches the resolve tightening in my chest. Just as I open the door, my phone buzzes—a message from the one man I have been unsuccessfully avoiding.
Matteo: We need to talk, bella.
My breath stutters, but only for a moment. “No, we don’t,” I whisper under my breath as I slip the phone into my bag. I can’t think about him right now. Not his voice, not his hands, not the way he held me like I was something precious. I need focus.
“Where to, ma’am?” the cab driver asks.
“The Bean, please. Near the main square.”
“Got it.”
The ride is quiet, and for the first time today, I welcome the silence.
When we arrive, I thank him, step out, and walk into the café, ordering a strong black coffee—the kind that tastes like resolve and keeps the mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
I choose a corner table away from the crowd and take out my notebook, forcing myself into action.
I start writing. A list of everything I need to research.
Medical care options for my mother; now that she’s stable, I can focus on securing her long-term treatment.
Jobs I can realistically take with my fashion background, even the ones I once hated, because right now pride is a luxury I cannot afford.
Steps to protect my father’s business from whatever fallout may come.
Lawyers I might need to hire, even if they drain my savings before I’ve even begun.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance down despite myself.
Matteo: Whatever you’re carrying… you don’t have to carry it alone.
My chest tightens, but I close my eyes and exhale, setting the phone face-down on the table. A part of me aches to call him, because I know—without a shadow of doubt—that if I asked, he would help me. He would give me the money. He would tear the world apart if I whispered the word please.
But Matteo is tied to Giacomo in ways I cannot risk. He exists in the same dangerous orbit, and if I am cutting myself free, I cannot afford any connection to either of them, not even the one that makes my heart feel something close to alive.
I flip the phone back over and dial the number for the rehabilitation center I found earlier. My hand trembles as I hold it to my ear, not from fear, but from the weight of every step I know I’ll need to take after this.
The line rings once. Twice. A third time.
“Hello,” a calm voice answers. “How can I help you today?”
“Hi,” I say, straightening in my chair. “I wanted to inquire about your rehabilitation programs… and the financial assistance options you offer.”
As I speak, my eyes fall on the notes scattered across the table—a fragile roadmap, maybe, but one I built myself. And for the first time in a long time, something blooms in my chest that feels dangerously close to belief.
This could work. This might actually work.
At this point, hope is all I have—but hope, I’m learning, is enough to start a war for your own freedom.
This is only the first of many steps, and the path ahead might bruise me, test me, push me harder than I’ve ever been pushed. But even if I don’t make it out untouched, I’ll fight for the woman I refuse to lose again. The one who chose her own life. The one who didn’t live in fear.
Later that night, the apartment feels too small to hold the storm inside me, so I wrap a cardigan around my shoulders and head up to the rooftop for air. The sky is clear, the city humming below in soft, distant pulses. I expect to be alone.
I’m not.
Matteo stands by the railing, the wind tugging at his hair, his posture tense like he’s wrestling thoughts he can’t outrun. He turns when he senses me.
“I didn’t think anyone else came up here,” I say quietly.
“Sometimes it’s the only place I can think,” he answers.
I move beside him, leaving a careful bit of space between us. The lights paint his profile in gold and shadow.
“Do you think it ever goes away?” I ask.
“What?”
“That feeling like you’ve been holding your breath too long.”
He finally looks at me, something raw flickering behind his eyes. “No. I think we just learn to live with the ache.”
The truth of it settles hard in my chest.
“I’m scared he’ll come back,” I whisper.
Matteo doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch me. He simply stands beside me, solid and steady against the night.
Not a promise. Not a confession. Just quiet protection, offered without asking anything in return.
The wind bites at my skin, and before I can talk myself out of it, I let my shoulder rest against his—light, unassuming, almost accidental.
We stay like that as the wind grows colder, neither of us willing to break the fragile peace stretched between us.