Chapter 5 Livia
Isit frozen, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. The limo's engine cuts off, leaving us in silence. My throat still burns from screaming, my eyes sting from crying, but I refuse to let another tear fall.
Gabriel shifts beside me, but I don't acknowledge him.
I keep my gaze fixed on the mansion looming outside the tinted windows.
It's a far cry from the cozy UCLA campus I left behind.
God, was it only yesterday I was celebrating my fellowship?
The memory of Jake's touch feels like it belongs to another lifetime.
"Livia," Gabriel's voice is low and gentle. "It's time to go inside."
I don't move. Part of me wants to curl up and disappear, while another part wants to claw Gabriel's eyes out for his betrayal. "Fuck you," I mutter under my breath.
"Liv, please," he tries again. "We can't just sit here."
A man appears from the house and makes his way over to the limo. Gabriel sighs and gets out of the car. They exchange a few words and then Gabriel sticks his hand inside, offering assistance. "I'll help you out," Gabriel says.
I shove his hand away and stumble out on my own. The crisp morning air carrying the scent of freshly cut grass makes me want to vomit. It's too normal, too mundane for this nightmare I've stepped into.
"Ms. Falcone," the man who came from the house says. "Mr. Bonventi is expecting you. If you'll follow me please."
I hesitate for a moment. A mix of thoughts enter my mind: to run, to scream, to fight. But what's the point? There's nowhere to go, no one to hear me, no fight left to give. So I nod, my movements mechanical, and follow him up the grand steps to the front door.
The entryway is all marble, crystal, and gold.
It screams of wealth and power, every surface polished to a mirror shine.
My reflection stares back at me from the floor, a pale, disheveled ghost of the woman I was just hours ago.
Where's the bright-eyed ever curious natured scholar who was going to revolutionize Victorian literature studies?
Gone, replaced by this hollow-eyed stranger.
"This way, please," the man says, leading me deeper into the house.
As we walk, I can't help but think, this is real.
It's happening. In moments, I'll be face to face with the man who's claiming me as his own.
The thought makes my stomach churn, but a small part of me – the part that's always loved a good mystery – can't help but wonder what kind of man Enzo Bonventi really is.
We pass countless doors, each closed. The corridors seem endless, a labyrinth designed to disorient and confuse.
I try to memorize the path, my academic mind kicking in despite my foggy overwhelmed brain.
Everything is sleek, masculine, cold. There's not a hint of warmth or personality anywhere. It's less a home and more a museum.
As we approach a set of richly carved mahogany doors, I feel the last of my resolve crumbling and I slump against Gabriel.
"I can't," I whisper, my voice shaky. "Please, Gabriel. Don't make me do this."
"You have to," he says, voice low and final. "For both our sakes."
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and Gabriel's arm tightens around me. For a moment, I'm transported back to my childhood, when he'd comfort me after a nightmare in our foster home. The memory only makes this reality more painful.
My heart pounds in my chest as I step into the room. It's a study, lined with bookshelves and artwork that probably costs more than my entire education. The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow that feels out of place in this cold, impersonal space.
"Please take a seat. Mr. Bonventi will be with you momentarily," the man says and exits the room, closing the doors behind him.
I take a seat in one of the high-back chairs, the leather cool and smooth against my skin. The scent of fresh lilies fills my nose as I see them sitting on the center table. It's the only soft touch in the entire room, and somehow that makes it worse.
I sit, rigid and tense. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks relentlessly, each second hammering into me. Each tick is another nail in the coffin of my dreams. My research, my career, my independence - all of it slipping away with every passing second.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It's maddening, a constant reminder of my dwindling freedom. I rub my skull pendant to relax myself.
What would Megan think when I don't show up for our study session next week? Would Jake - ugh, does that even matter anymore? The thought of them going about their lives, oblivious to my predicament, makes me feel like I'm drowning in an ocean of isolation.
My eyes instinctively dart around the room, cataloging every detail.
The heavy oak bookends on the shelf to my right—they'd make formidable weapons if needed.
A letter opener, its blade sharp, lies on the massive desk in the corner.
I file away these details, my mind already formulating escape plans, no matter how futile they might be.
Overall, the room feels artificial. The sterileness of it all makes me ache for my comfy apartment, with its mismatched IKEA furniture and walls plastered with post-it notes full of Victorian literature quotes.
My palms are slick with sweat, and I wipe them on my jeans, leaving damp marks on the fabric.
I should be in bed with Jake right now, nursing a boxed wine hangover.
Instead, I'm here, waiting to meet the man who's stolen my future.
The irony isn't lost on me – I've spent years studying literature, and now I'm living out some twisted, modern version of a Gothic novel.
The door we came through is the only way in or out, as far as I can tell. But beyond it lies a maze of corridors, each one potentially leading to more of Enzo's men. And even if I could navigate them, where would I go?
I'm trapped. Like a butterfly pinned to a board, wings fluttering uselessly against the inevitable.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the hallway, echoing off the marble floors. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard I'm certain everyone in the mansion can hear it.
It reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," the narrator driven mad by the sound of the old man's beating heart. But this is no work of fiction. This is my reality, and I'm terrified.
Gabriel, who had been pacing near the bookshelves, straightens up. I glance at him, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches. He's anxious, and that sends me over the edge.
If my ruthless brother is nervous, what hope do I have?
The footsteps grow louder, closer. My mouth is dry, and I can taste the metallic tang of fear on my tongue.
Breathe, Livia, I tell myself. You've faced down mean foster parents, snooty professors, and cutthroat peers. You can handle this.
The door swings open.
A man steps into the room, and I know instantly that this is Enzo Bonventi. I've met him a few times in my life, but Gabriel had done a good job at keeping me away from him, from everything he does. The last time I saw Enzo was at least five or six years ago, but now he looks different.
He's very tall and fills the doorway with his broad shoulders. He's impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. His presence is overwhelming, dominating the space in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
Our eyes meet, and I feel a jolt of something. Fear? Anger? Or something else entirely? His blue eyes are piercing, assessing, like he's looking right through me. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm caught, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.
"Livia," he says, his voice deep and smooth. "Welcome to my home."
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat feels constricted, choking on all the things I want to say.
Enzo moves further into the room, his steps measured and confident. He doesn't look at Gabriel, his focus entirely on me. I feel exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny.
"Was my jet comfortable?" he asks, as if this were a normal social call and not the beginning of my imprisonment.
I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Comfortable? Nothing about this situation is comfortable. I finally manage to find my voice, surprising myself with my tone. "Oh yes, absolutely delightful. Nothing says comfort like being kidnapped and flown across the country against your will.”
A flicker of something passes across Enzo's face before it's replaced by a mask of cool indifference.
He moves to the bar cart, his eyes never leaving me. "Can I offer you a drink? You look like you could use one."
I run my tongue across my teeth, suppressing an instant anger. You look like you could use one, I think to myself, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
But before I can spit out a sarcastic reply, Enzo's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Or perhaps some water? The flight can be dehydrating." He pours a glass of water and brings it to me, his movements surprisingly gentle.
As I take the glass, our fingers brush, and for a moment, he almost seems like he is trying his best to comfort me. However, the moment is gone so quickly I'm not sure I didn't imagine it.
"I'm sure you have questions," he says, his voice calm and controlled. "Ask them."
A thousand things race through my mind, each more desperate than the last. But only one manages to escape my lips. "Why me?"
"That's an interesting question," he says and takes a sip, "why not you? Are you not worthy of a union between—"
"Union," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "You mean this forced marriage. Let's not sugarcoat it, shall we?”