Chapter 33 Camilla
The villa looks exactly the same, and that somehow makes everything worse.
I stand in the main foyer where this nightmare began, staring at the elegant staircase that leads to the room where I was held captive for weeks. The Persian rugs, the expensive art, the subtle scent of wealth and power. All of it perfect, as if nothing happened here.
As if I didn't kill a man in the salon down the hall.
As if I wasn't systematically broken down and rebuilt in the bedroom upstairs.
As if everything I believed about my situation wasn't a lie.
"The staff has prepared a room for you," Renato says quietly behind me. "Whichever one you prefer. You're not going back to—"
"To my cell?" I turn to face him, noting how he keeps his distance like I might run. "Because that's what it was, wasn't it? No matter how you dress it up."
"Yes." The simple admission catches me off guard. "It was a cell."
I expected him to argue, to find some way to justify it. The honesty is somehow worse than lies would be.
"I need to see the salon," I say suddenly.
"Camilla, I don't think that’s a good idea."
"I need to see where it happened. Where I killed a man believing I was saving myself from being sold to monsters." My voice cracks slightly. "Where you let me believe I was about to be sold to monsters."
He hesitates, then nods. "Okay."
The salon has been restored to pristine condition. The blood is gone, the furniture replaced, even the smell of death scrubbed away. Only the faint scent of cleaning chemicals hints at what happened here.
"They did good work," I observe, my voice hollow. "No one would ever know."
I walk to where I remember Kozlov falling, though with everything changed, I'm not even sure it's the right spot. Nothing feels real anymore.
"Do you know what I keep thinking about?" I ask, not looking at him.
"What?"
"I keep thinking about how I felt when I drove that pen into his throat. How satisfied I was." My hands start shaking. "What kind of person feels satisfied about killing someone?"
"Someone who was defending herself."
"Was I? Or was I just another part of your elaborate performance?" I turn to face him, and I can feel myself starting to fracture. "How much of what I felt was real? How much of what I did was actually me, and how much was just your programming?"
"Everything you felt was real."
"How would you know? How would I know?" My voice is rising now, hysteria creeping in. "You spent weeks conditioning me, training me, making me believe things that weren't true. How do I know anything I think or feel is actually mine?"
"Camilla—"
"I thought I was brave for seducing you. I thought I was clever for using my body as a weapon. But what if that was just you manipulating me into thinking I had power when I didn't?" I'm pacing now, my thoughts spiraling. "What if everything I believed about myself was just another lie you fed me?"
"That's not what happened."
"How do I trust anything anymore? How do I trust my own mind when you've been inside it for weeks, reshaping it to suit your needs?"
He takes a step toward me and I flinch back instinctively. The hurt that flashes across his face should satisfy me, but it just makes me feel more lost.
"I never wanted to break you," he says quietly.
"Then what did you want?" The question comes out broken, desperate. "Because I can't figure out what any of this was for if not to break me."
"I wanted to keep you."
"Keep me." I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. "Like a pet. Like a beautiful thing you put in a cage and call it protection."
"It wasn't protection. Not at first."
"Then what was it?"
"Obsession. Possession. The need to control something I couldn't understand." His voice is raw now, honest in a way that cuts. "I told myself it was about the debt, about family honor, about business. But it was about wanting you so badly I was willing to destroy you to have you."
The confession startles me. At least when he was lying, I could hate him cleanly. This honesty is so much worse.
I sink into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted.
Wanting.
He's saying he wanted me after weeks of psychological torture, after letting me believe I was going to be sold to rapists, after conditioning me like a dog.
"I don't know what any of that means anymore," I whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I thought Lorenzo wanted me, but he stepped aside and watched me get taken. I thought my father cared about me, but he arranged my marriage to cover his debts." I look up at him. "So what does wanting even mean when everyone who claims to want me treats me terribly?"
He's silent for a long moment. "I don't have an answer for that."
"Of course you don't."
We sit in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.
"What do you need?" he asks finally.
The question breaks something inside me.
"I don't know. I can't tell anymore. How could I?
I don't even know who I am anymore." The tears start then, hot and angry and unstoppable.
"I don't know what's real, what's programming, what's trauma, what's actually me.
I don't know if I can trust my own feelings because you've been manipulating them for weeks. "
"Camilla—"
"I don't know if I really hate you or if I'm just supposed to hate you or both.
I don't know if I want to run away from you or never leave your side.
I don't know if I'm strong or if I just think I'm strong because you conditioned me to believe it.
" I'm sobbing now, all the control I've been maintaining finally shattering.
"I don't know anything anymore. I’m lost."
He moves like he wants to comfort me, then stops himself.
"I don't even know if I want justice or revenge or just to forget this ever happened," I continue through the tears. "You're asking what I need like I'm a rational person making rational decisions, but I'm not rational. I'm broken. You broke me, and now you want me to tell you how to fix it."
"I want to try to fix it."
"You can't. You can't undo weeks of psychological manipulation with good intentions and honest conversations." I wipe my face with shaking hands. "The damage is done."
"Then what do we do?"
"I don't know." The admission feels like defeat. "Maybe nothing. Maybe time. Maybe impossible things."
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful. "Do you want me to leave? Give you space to figure things out without me hovering?"
"Maybe. Yes. I don't know." I laugh bitterly. "See? I can't even answer simple questions anymore."
"Time," he says finally. "Maybe you need time."
"Maybe. But time for what? To get over this? To figure out who I am when I'm not being held prisoner or prepared for sale?" I stand up, suddenly needing to move. "I killed a man, Renato. I drove a pen through his throat and watched him bleed out."
"You were defending yourself from a man who was assaulting you."
"A man who was assaulting me as part of your elaborate show." I turn to face him. "Don't you see? Even my one moment of genuine strength, my one act of real defiance—it was all part of your game. It wasn’t real either."
The look on his face tells me he hadn't thought of it that way. Let him live with that.
"What about Lorenzo?" he asks quietly.
"What about him?"
"He was the one who stepped aside. He was the one who chose money over protecting you. He was part of this too."
I think about Lorenzo, about the calculating look in his eyes as armed men surrounded me. About how he weighed my life against his family's reputation and found me wanting.
"I want him to understand what it feels like to be powerless," I say slowly.
"I want him to lose everything he values the way I lost my freedom, my sense of self, my ability to trust my own mind.
" I meet Renato's eyes. "But I don't want to kill him.
I don't want to become someone who murders more people, even people who deserve it. "
"Then what do you want?"
"I want him to suffer. I want it to be justice, not revenge. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, it does."
"Can you do that? Make him pay without turning me into a killer?"
"Yes."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
I nod, feeling some small piece of myself settle back into place. Maybe I don't know what I need or want in the big picture, but I know this much: I don't want to become a monster, even for justice.
"I need to be alone now," I say. "I need to try to figure out who I am when no one is watching, when no one is conditioning me, when no one needs anything from me."
"How long?"
"I can't say. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Maybe forever."
"And if you decide you can't forgive me? If you decide you want nothing to do with me?"
"Then you let me go. Completely. No following, no protecting, no checking up on me." I pause. "I know Lorenzo is still out there. I know it might be dangerous. But if I decide to leave, you let me go. Even if it scares you."
He nods, though I can see what the promise costs him. "Anything else?"
"Stop lying to me. About everything, no matter how ugly the truth is. I'd rather be hurt by honesty than comforted by lies."
"Done."
"And Renato?"
"Yes?"
"If I decide to stay, if I decide I want to try to figure out what we could be together... it won't be because I've forgiven you. It'll be because I've decided you're worth the damage you've done."
"I understand."
"I hope you do. Because I'm not the same person you kidnapped from that cathedral. That woman died somewhere between the training sessions and the auction that never was. Whoever I am now, whoever I become... she's going to be harder, colder, more dangerous than the woman you thought you wanted."
"I'll take whatever version of you I can get."
"You say that now. But you might not like who I become."
I head for the stairs, leaving him standing in the salon.
I don't know what I need, what I want, or who I'm becoming.
But I'm going to find out without anyone else pulling the strings.