Chapter 35 Camilla
I've been staring at the ceiling for fourteen hours, and I still don't have answers.
The guest room, a different one than my former cell, one I chose myself from the options Renato offered, is beautiful in that expensive, impersonal way that wealthy people mistake for comfort. Silk wallpaper, antique furniture, fresh flowers on the nightstand. Everything perfect and cold.
Like my life was supposed to be with Lorenzo.
Like my captivity was designed to be with Renato.
Even his attempts at kindness come wrapped in luxury that keeps me at a distance from anything real.
I've tried sleeping. Tried crying. Tried the breathing exercises my Swiss finishing school counselor taught us for managing social anxiety. Nothing works because the fundamental question remains unanswered: what do I actually want?
Not what I should want. Not what would be healthy or smart or safe. What do I actually want?
The problem is, I don't trust my own desires anymore.
How can I, when they led me to push Renato during those training sessions?
When they made me enjoy the power I had over him even while believing I was about to be sold?
When they made me feel satisfaction watching him rescue me, even knowing he was the one who'd put me in danger in the first place?
Maybe my wants are just as twisted as everything else about this situation.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I don't answer, but I hear his voice through the door anyway.
"Camilla? I made coffee. And breakfast, if you're hungry. I'll leave it outside."
His voice is careful, neutral. No pressure, no demands. Just an offering.
I wait until his footsteps fade before opening the door.
A tray sits on the hall table with espresso, perfectly prepared, alongside pastries that look like they came from an expensive bakery.
But also fruit, yogurt, simple things. As if he couldn't decide between trying to impress me and just giving me normal food.
The uncertainty in his choices feels oddly comforting.
I take the tray back to my room and eat slowly, tasting each bite. When did I last eat something without calculating how it would affect my performance, my appearance, my value?
This coffee tastes like coffee. It tastes like a choice I'm making for myself.
By afternoon, the silence is driving me insane. Not because I miss him. I'm not ready to examine that yet, but because isolation feels too much like another form of control. Self-imposed this time, but still a cage.
I need to test something. Not our relationship, not my feelings, not the future. Just whether I can be in the same space as him without losing myself completely.
I find him in his study, surrounded by papers and empty scotch glasses. He looks like hell, unshaven, exhausted, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. When he sees me in the doorway, he goes very still.
"Hi," I say, because anything else feels too loaded.
"Hi." His voice is hoarse. "Are you... do you need something?"
"I want to ask you something, but I need you to not read anything into it."
"Okay."
"I want to do something normal. Not talk about what happened, not make decisions about the future, not process trauma or guilt or any of it.
" I lean against the doorframe, keeping distance between us.
"I want to do something that has nothing to do with kidnapping or auctions or who we are to each other. "
"What did you have in mind?"
"Does the pool still work?"
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. "Yes. It's heated, maintained. Do you want to swim?"
"I want to see if I can be around you doing something normal without everything being about power and control." I cross my arms. "Think you can manage that?"
"I can try."
"No trying. Either you can do normal or you can't. If you can't, I'll go back upstairs and we'll pretend this conversation didn't happen."
Something flickers in his expression, hurt, maybe, or frustration. But he nods. "I can do normal."
"Meet me at the pool in twenty minutes. And Renato?"
"Yes?"
"If you try to turn this into some kind of moment to discuss our relationship, I'll disappear. Permanently. Understood?"
"Understood."
I change into one of the swimsuits from the wardrobe, a simple black one-piece that's elegant without being seductive. Everything in this house is chosen so carefully, designed to present a specific image. I wonder if Renato even owns anything that isn't calculated.
The pool area is as beautiful as everything else about the villa with an infinity edge overlooking the lake, expensive stone, tasteful landscaping. But it's also empty, unused, like a movie set.
He's already there when I arrive, sitting in one of the lounge chairs wearing simple swim shorts. No designer labels visible, no obvious displays of wealth. Just a man who looks like he hasn't slept in days, waiting to see what I want from him.
"Nice shorts," I say, because the silence feels dangerous.
"Thanks. They're five years old."
"You own five-year-old clothing? I'm shocked."
"I keep some things that aren't about image." He glances at me, then quickly away. "You look... comfortable."
"I am comfortable. Which is weird, considering." I walk to the pool edge, testing the water temperature with my toe. "When did you last swim here?"
"I don't swim here."
"You have a pool you don't use?"
"I have a lot of things I don't use. It came with the house."
"You bought a house for the pool you don't use?"
"I bought a house for the security and the isolation. The pool was included."
I dive in before I can think too much about it. The water is perfect, warm but not hot, chlorinated but not harsh. I swim a few laps, letting the physical movement clear my head.
Normal.
This is what normal feels like. Moving my body because I want to, not because someone is evaluating my fitness or conditioning my responses.
When I surface at the shallow end, he's still sitting in his chair, watching but trying not to look like he's watching.
"Are you coming in, or are you just going to sit there being weird about it?"
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Everything makes me uncomfortable. Your presence, your absence, this house, the thought of leaving this house. If I waited until I was comfortable, I'd never do anything." I float on my back, staring up at the sky. "Just swim. Be a person who swims in his own damn pool."
He stands, walks to the edge, and dives in cleanly. I watch him surface at the far end, then start swimming laps, keeping his distance. Shared space, but not crowding me.
We swim in silence for a while. No conversation, no loaded glances, just two people moving through water. It's almost peaceful.
Almost.
Eventually I stop at the deep end, treading water. He's still doing laps on the far side.
"Can I ask you something?" I call out.
He stops, floating near the opposite wall. "Depends on the question."
"Not about us. About you." I pause. "What did you do before? Before the debt collection and the... professional problem-solving."
"You want my background?"
"I want to know if you were always this controlled, or if it's something you learned."
He's quiet for a moment, then swims a bit closer, still keeping distance, but enough that we don't have to shout. "I grew up poor. Not romantically poor, not noble-struggle poor. Actually poor. My mother cleaned houses for families like yours."
"And your father?"
"Absent. By choice." His voice is matter-of-fact. "When I was fifteen, I started working for men who solved problems that couldn't be solved legally. Small things at first. Collecting debts, delivering messages, intimidating people who needed intimidating."
"And you were good at it."
"I was good at not being afraid. And I was good at making other people afraid." He floats on his back, staring at the sky. "By the time I was twenty-five, I was running my own operations. By thirty, I had enough money and connections to go legitimate if I wanted."
"But you didn't want to."
"I didn't know how to want anything else. Control was the only thing that made sense to me. The only thing that felt safe."
I process this, floating in the warm water. "And now?"
"Now I'm learning that control is an illusion. And that the things worth having can't be controlled into existence."
"That sounds like therapy speak."
"It’s the truth."
We swim some more, moving in lazy circles around the pool. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with money or power or careful design.
"This is nice," I say eventually, floating near the center of the pool.
"The swimming?"
"The not talking about important things. The not making decisions or processing trauma or figuring out our future." I drift a bit closer to him, testing my reaction to his proximity. "It feels almost like being normal people."
"Are we not normal people?"
"You're a man who kidnaps women from their weddings. I'm a woman who kills people with office supplies." I meet his eyes across the water. "I don't think we qualify as normal."
"Fair point."
"But this..." I gesture to the pool, the evening light, the simple act of existing in the same space without crisis or conflict. "This feels like what normal people might do."
"Yeah. It does."
We're treading water maybe ten feet apart now. Close enough to see the exhaustion in his face, the worry lines that weren't there before. Close enough to notice that he's being very careful not to move any closer.
"Are you scared of me?" I ask.
"Terrified."
"You should be." I swim backward toward the shallow end. "I'm getting out. This was... fine."
"Fine?"
"Don't get greedy." I pull myself out of the pool and reach for a towel. "It was what it needed to be."
As I wrap the towel around myself, I feel his eyes on me. Not predatory, not calculating. Just looking. Like I'm something beautiful he's afraid to touch.
"Camilla?"
I turn back. "What?"
"Thank you. For this. For giving me a chance to be human with you."
"It's not forgiveness," I warn him. "And it doesn't mean I've decided anything about us."
"I know."
I head toward the house. "I'm going to shower and think some more. Possibly for several more days."
"Take all the time you need."
"I will."
As I walk back toward the villa, I realize something has shifted. Not everything. I'm still angry, still hurt, still completely uncertain about what I want. But something small has changed.
For an hour, I was just a woman swimming in a pool with a man who made her coffee and didn't try to control the conversation.
It felt almost like a choice I was making for myself.
Almost like something I might want.
But I'm not ready to examine that too closely yet.
Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.