Chapter 18 Beatrice
BEATRICE
The rumors spread faster than I can breathe. I thought I would have at least a few days to adjust, to understand what my life is becoming, but I don’t even get hours. By day two, half the city already knows I’m no longer Giacomo’s possession—I’m Matteo’s fiancée.
No official announcement. No press release.
Just whispers, headlines phrased carefully enough to avoid lawsuits yet bold enough that everyone who matters can read the truth right between the lines.
Beatrice Morelli, once betrothed to Giacomo Feriama, is now promised to young business tycoon Matteo Davacalli.
The shift in allegiance was a quiet earthquake, and somehow the world felt it before I even had the chance.
Matteo moved me within hours—out of the penthouse that had suffocated me, and into one of his own that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and new beginnings. He installed security I can’t see and guards I can’t avoid, and wrapped my name beneath the weight of his own.
There’s a spotlight on me now, one that makes it impossible to hide. And yet, beneath the glare, I feel something I haven’t felt in months.
Relief.
Matteo’s name is a shield. His world, for all its danger, feels safer than the one I fled. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to smile on command. I don’t have to brace for the next storm.
But it’s temporary. All of it is temporary. And the question that beats behind every step I take is simple.
How long until Giacomo breaks through?
A sudden tug yanks me sideways, right before I collide with a wall of tinted glass. My phone nearly slips from my hand as I jerk back to reality. Valerio’s grip steadies me for half a second before he releases me like I’ve burned him.
“You need to watch where you’re going, principessa,” he mutters, the title dipped in annoyance rather than affection.
“Sorry,” I murmur, breathless more from nerves than the misstep. “I was just texting my dad.”
He grunts—his version of I heard you—and continues toward the exit. I’ve learned he isn’t much of a talker. Or maybe he simply prefers not to talk to me.
We step out of Davacalli Tower and the cool city air hits my face. The black SUV idles at the curb, bulletproof glass catching the afternoon light. I glance down at my phone again, rereading my father’s message before responding.
Dad: We just landed in Florence. Mom is doing okay. Her check-up is next week. Be safe, amore mio.
Me: All good, Dad. Let me know if you need anything.
Dad: Will do. I hope you know what you’re doing, Bea. Giacomo is not a man to be played with.
Me: Neither is Matteo.
A throat clears.
I lift my gaze to find Valerio holding the car door open, eyebrows raised in a way that tells me his patience is wearing thin.
“Any day now,” he deadpans.
“Sorry,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, and slip my phone into my bag. I climb into the sleek SUV, the leather cool against my skin, and sink into the seat with a tight exhale I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Things with my father have been… strained is too gentle a word.
He’s furious, terrified, disappointed—all of it wrapped together in a way only a man watching his world burn could understand.
I uprooted him and my mother overnight, sent them across an ocean with barely a warning.
But there was no alternative. Not when, two nights after I left Giacomo, he reduced my father’s restaurant to ash and set our old townhouse ablaze like it was nothing more than a matchstick memory.
The thought of what else he might have done if I’d hesitated sends a cold shiver crawling along my spine.
For now, he has been quiet. But quiet is how storms gather.
And until this storm is over, I move with my own shadow—Valerio—who slides into the seat beside me just as the SUV pulls away from the curb.
“So what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, searching for anything to fill the silence stretching between us.
“You need a dress for an upcoming engagement you’ll attend with the boss,” he says, not bothering to turn his head. “We’re going to Mullier so you can pick something out.”
My jaw drops. “Wait—Mullier? The Mullier? As in the most exclusive fashion house on the planet? That Mullier?”
He casts me the quickest sideways glance. “I see you’re a woman who knows her fashion.”
“Anyone with taste knows Mullier,” I say, unable to contain the awe in my voice. “You can’t even walk into their boutiques without an invitation.”
“Well,” he says dryly, “you’re lucky your husband-to-be has connections.”
The words husband-to-be land heavy in my chest—equal parts surreal and grounding—and yet the thrill that ignites at the thought of stepping inside Mullier keeps the dread at bay.
I watch the skyline blur by, skyscrapers glinting in the sunlight, until we pull up to a glass building so polished it reflects the city back like a secret.
I try to compose myself, to keep my expression neutral, graceful, worthy of someone who belongs here. But my pulse is a traitor, fluttering wildly beneath my skin.
“Good morning, Miss Morelli.”
A boutique assistant greets me the second I step inside, her smile perfectly trained, her posture respectful in a way that tells me Matteo’s name arrived long before I did. “Mr. Davacalli informed us of your visit. My name is Janette, and I’ll be assisting you today.”
“Hello,” I say, my cheeks already aching from the smile I can’t quite contain.
Janette gestures toward the showroom. “Please feel free to explore the collection and choose whatever you’d like.”
Whatever I’d like. The words nearly knock the breath out of me.
Rows of garments drape across gold rails—pieces I’ve studied for years in magazines and lookbooks, pieces I once admired from a distance like art behind museum glass. Silk, organza, hand-embroidered lace. Craftsmanship that usually lives an entire lifetime beyond my reach.
And today… I get to touch them. Try them. Wear them.
My fingers skim the sleeve of a runway gown and something warm unfurls in my chest—a reminder of who I was before all this, before Giacomo, before fear. A woman who loved beauty. A woman who dreamed freely.
A small laugh escapes me as I turn to Janette.
“What if I want them all?”
Janette opens her mouth but Valerio beats her to it.
“Easy now, principessa,” he drawls, not bothering to hide the boredom threading through his tone. “Don’t go bankrupting my boss.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Relax,” he cuts in with a lazy shrug. “It was a joke.”
“Well, you’re not funny.”
“I happen to be hilarious, actually.” He rubs a hand along the stubble on his jaw, then glances toward Janette. “I’ll be over there if you need me. Do you have some whiskey, Janette?”
She straightens instantly, as if summoned by royalty. And I don’t miss the way her eyes flick over him—quick, interested, entirely involuntary.
“No whiskey, unfortunately,” she says, smiling too brightly. “But we do have an excellent champagne list.”
Valerio nods, and she signals another associate to tend to him before turning back to me.
“Please follow me, Miss Morelli.”
We move through the racks, and I lose myself in the fabrics—gowns I once admired through screens now draping beneath my fingertips. Silk, beading, embroidery—beauty I had thought I’d never get close to again. Minutes blur, and before long Janette’s arms are stacked with dresses.
Valerio lounges on a plush couch nearby, phone in hand, champagne flute refilled the moment it dips below halfway.
“Right this way,” Janette says, guiding me to the changing rooms.
The fitting suite is stunning—light wood paneling, a sweeping mirror stretching wall to wall, warm spotlights that make every gown glow like a relic. A long cream bench sits against the side wall, hooks waiting for the dresses that feel like they belong in a museum.
“Take your time,” Janette says softly. “If you need anything, just call.”
Her smile falters on those last words. Barely noticeable, but enough to make something cold tap against the base of my spine. Her shoulders stiffen. Her eyes flick—just once—past me, toward the mirror.
“Thank you,” I reply, careful, watching her closely.
She nods once—too sharp, too quick—and slips out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Silence swallows the space.
I turn toward the mirror.
And freeze.
A pair of steel-blue eyes stare back at me from the reflection—eyes I know almost as well as my own nightmares. Before I can gasp, something cold and merciless presses against the side of my throat. A blade. Sharp enough that even my swallow nudges my skin dangerously close to its edge.
My pulse kicks violently. Blood thuds through my carotid with each second, each beat drawing the metal’s bite closer.
A breath ghosts against the back of my neck—warm, familiar, poisonous.
“Cara mia,” he murmurs, voice curling over my spine like smoke. “It’s been a while.”
His fingers brush my shoulder as if greeting a lover. The knife doesn’t move.
“Dress shopping, I see,” he whispers.
And the world tilts.
Giacomo.
“You always did look better in silk,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the nape of my neck as if he has the right to savor me. His lips hover centimeters from my skin, close enough that I feel the warm ghost of each word. “And blood red… mm. A perfect match for those autumn eyes of yours.”
I can’t breathe.
The knife doesn’t move, but its presence is louder than any scream I could make. Cold, sharp, pressing just hard enough to promise blood.
“Say a word,” he hisses, “and the next sound will cost you your mother’s life. I hear Florence is a wonderful place to die.”
My body locks. Every muscle turns to stone.
“You didn’t think I knew where they were?” His laugh is quiet and cruel, a sound that slithers beneath my skin. “Come now, cara. Give me a little more credit than that.”
His smile twists in the mirror behind me. “Your little boyfriend may think he’s clever, may think he’s one step ahead—but he isn’t.”
My heart drops so violently I feel nauseous.
He knows. Of course he knows.