Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
VIOLA
“Where is his family? Doesn’t he have any family at all?” my sister asks as I approach her, her voice low but sharp.
She’s staring at Ricci with a pinched expression like he’s some kind of puzzle she can’t solve, her arm still linked with our mother’s. “Or he just didn’t invite them.”
“He doesn’t have any family,” I say quietly, correcting her.
My sister and mother share one of those unimpressed looks—the kind that used to make me feel small when I was younger, like I’ve disappointed them again without even trying.
I can’t stand it right now. The weight of the day is already pressing down on me, and their silent judgment is the last thing I need.
“Stop it, you two. This is done. I’m married now. I came to say goodbye.”
“Well… goodbye,” Fabiola replies, her voice flat, like the word tastes bad in her mouth. She crosses her arms, the black lace of her dress sleeve shifting with the movement. “I wish you luck.”
“You wish me luck?” That’s it? My eyes sting with the tears I refuse to let fall. I feel them burning behind my lids, hot and unwanted, threatening to spill over and ruin the composure I’ve barely held onto all day.
“Viola, I really don’t know what else to say. This is all just too sudden,” she says.
With a sigh, she pulls me into a hug, her arms tight around me, the familiar scent of her perfume making my throat close up. “You know I love you, V, and I’ll always be there for you. I’ve tried to talk you out of this, but you refused, so I’ll just be here in case you need me, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, hugging her back for a long second, letting myself feel the warmth of her before I have to let go. “And stop being so damn judgmental. This is the best choice for me… under the circumstances.”
“All right,” she says, but I hear the doubt, the reluctance. She pulls back, eyes searching mine. “So where are you two going now?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. Her mouth falls open, genuine shock flashing across her face.
“You don’t even know where you’ll be living?”
“Nope,” I say, shrugging because the truth is I really don’t. I don’t know anything. So I’ll just take it one day at a time.
“Leave her be,” my mother says softly. “Be happy, Viola. I will pray for you that you made the right decision.
“Thanks, Mama.”
“Call me if there are any problems,” my sister says.
I nod, but feel a twinge of sadness. My sister doesn’t expect my marriage to last. And judging from my mother’s expression, neither does she.
We part ways then, my sister’s hand giving my arm one last squeeze before she steps back from me.
I look at the two of them for a second longer.
I know they have never truly cared about me, but I still can’t help feeling hurt and sad when I meet them, and they show it so clearly, especially my mother.
I raise my hand and give them a small wave before I turn away and head towards the car.
A cool wind carries the distant sound of traffic and the hazy smell of hot dogs from the street vendor a block away.
I wrap my arms around myself, the simple satin dress suddenly feeling too thin.
When I see that the chauffeur has been dismissed and it’s just the two of us, I get into the front seat.
The SUV is quiet, the engine a low purr as we pull away from the curb and head back toward the city.
Neither of us speaks. I stare out at the city lights, trying to keep my breathing steady, trying to appear calm and collected.
The silence between us is thick and heavy—like we’re both waiting for something.
Once in the city center, Ricci drives into the private underground parking of a high-rise building, one of those sleek glass towers that pierce the Manhattan skyline like a dark blade.
We get out, and he leads me to an elevator tucked in the corner—no buttons, just a key card swipe.
The doors slide open silently, and we step inside.
The mirrored walls reflect us back—I look calmer than I feel, and he looks utterly dashing, bow tie loose, shirt collar open.
The ride is smooth and quiet, the numbers lighting up in soft blue as we ascend. My stomach flips the higher we go.
The doors ding open on the penthouse floor.
I step out first, and the space hits me. I look around with awe.
It is massive, a duplex that sprawls across the entire top two floors.
It is the exact opposite of the fussy, ostentatious interior of the Greco mansion.
The open living area stretches out in front of me, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around three sides, the city glittering below like a sea of fallen stars.
The furniture is sleek and modern—deep charcoal leather sofas, a low glass coffee table.
The kitchen gleams with stainless steel appliances and dark marble counters.
All those sharp lines would have been a bit cold, if not for a huge vase of fresh flowers in the center of the foyer.
Absolutely gorgeous white roses, their petals soft and luminous under the recessed lighting, give the room softness and grace.
The scent hits me as I walk closer, sweet and clean, rising to meet me like a small, unexpected kindness.
I can’t help but reach out, letting my fingers brush the silky blooms. Under my touch, the petals are cool and velvety.
“Nice apartment,” I say, my voice soft as I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in.
And it’s true. I love the apartment immediately.
The Greco house was huge—it swallowed me whole, made every room feel empty even when it was full of people.
Not that I expect to feel less lonely here, but at least it’s smaller, smoother, more contained.
The only thing I’ll miss is riding the horses.
Ricci comes around the corner from the kitchen, smiling at me, a real smile that softens the hard edges of his face. “You’ve always lived in houses, haven’t you?”
“Yes. But this is really nice.”
He smiles again, wider this time, and reaches up to loosen his bow tie completely.
He pulls it free, the black silk sliding through his fingers, then starts unbuttoning his shirt as he walks back toward the kitchen.
I watch him—trying not to stare, failing.
The way the crisp white fabric parts to reveal the hard lines of his chest, the shadow of dark hair trailing down the center, the way his shoulders move under the open collar.
He moves with that same effortless power he always has, as if space bends around him.
I take a seat nervously on one of the high stools at the island, the leather feels cool against the backs of my thighs.
“Drink?” he offers. “A glass of champagne?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He pours two glasses of whiskey from a heavy crystal decanter, then he slides one across the marble to me.
I accept it and take a sip. The whiskey is smooth and cold on my tongue, but my stomach is still tight, knotted with nerves and something else I don’t want to name. My fingers tighten around the glass until my knuckles ache.
“You can start to move your things in here tomorrow, and you’re welcome to make any changes you want to make yourself feel more at home.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, but I’m more than a little surprised at this. This was not an allowance given to me in my previous marriage. I was expected to move in and blend in, not change anything or move anything out of place. His words make the tension in my shoulders ease.
And immediately I start imagining how I could warm the place up.
I’ve always loved interior design. Always craved the kind of comfort a real home can bring, the kind I’ve never had.
Soft cashmere throws in deep jewel tones draped over the leather.
Plush rugs to sink my toes into on cold mornings.
Cushions everywhere, beeswax candles that actually burn instead of just sitting there looking expensive.
Plants that live and breathe—ferns, orchids, maybe a small lemon tree by the windows.
Little touches that would make this apartment stop feeling like a beautiful cage and more like…
my home. A place where I could finally exhale.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “What would you like to have for dinner?”
I shake my head, certain I will not be able to keep anything down even if I try. I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. My stomach is a knot of nerves and anticipation and fear and want, all tangled together.
“Well then,” he says, setting his glass down with a soft clink, “since you don’t want to eat…”
At his words I nearly choke on my drink. The liquid burns going down the wrong way, and I cough and splitter, eyes watering, and heat flooding my face in a rush. I set the glass down with a shaky hand, trying to catch my breath while his eyes stay on me, dark and watchful.
The air feels charged, electric, every second ticking by like a countdown, and I can feel the space between us crackling with sexual tension.
He’s still standing there in his unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows now, forearms corded with muscle, looking at me like he knows exactly how this night is going to end.
My thighs press together under the island, seeking friction, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. He doesn’t move closer. He just watches me, letting the tension build, letting me feel it settle deep in my bones.
I want what he wants, and that’s what scares me most of all.