Chapter 4 #4
You don’t know him. You don’t see what I see.
Mrs. Montoni’s words echo in my head, and I push them away angrily. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know Cristiano like I do. She doesn’t see the boy who puts his head in my lap and trembles when I stroke his hair. The boy who kissed me like I was precious. The boy who begged me to stay.
He’s nothing like his father.
I stay behind the shed until my breathing slows and my throat stops burning. Then I get up, brush off my clothes, and walk back to the house on unsteady legs.
I don’t go looking for Cristiano. I don’t know what I’d say if I found him.
That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do.
I could tell him what happened. Warn him that his mother might say something to his father.
But then he’d know I went to her. He’d know I tried to interfere in something that wasn’t mine to fix. Would he be grateful? Or angry?
I could stay away from him and prove to Mr. Montoni that I’m not worth punishing Cristiano over, but the thought of not seeing him makes my chest ache. After yesterday, how am I supposed to just stay away?
I could talk to Mom. Tell her what happened.
But she’d be furious and scared, and she’d probably march me straight to Mrs. Montoni to apologize, which would only make everything worse because what if I make her cry again?
I roll into a ball and hold myself tight.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’ve made a terrible mess of everything, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Somewhere in this house, Cristiano is sleeping. Or maybe he’s lying awake like me. He has bruises on his face, a mother who’s afraid of him, and a father who hates him. It’s just not fair.
How can I abandon him when I’m the only person he has?
But how can I be his friend when being close to him only makes his life harder?
The next day is agony.
Cristiano meets me at the school gates like always, but everything feels different. The air between us is thick with things unsaid. He takes my bag like always, but today the brush of his fingers makes me flinch.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“Mina?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
We walk home in near silence. He keeps glancing at me, those amber eyes searching my face, but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead.
Every time his arm brushes against mine, my skin tingles.
Every time he moves closer, I think about how I made his mother sob.
The bruise on his cheek has started to fade to a dull purple, greenish at the edges.
I should tell him what I did, but every time I open my mouth, the words die in my throat. I’m such a coward.
When we reach the mansion, we head around the side to enter through the kitchen, and Cristiano hesitates at the door.
“Will you come to the garden?” he asks.
My heart lurches. The garden. Where I held him and stroked his hair and kissed him. Where everything was terrifying and perfect.
“I can’t. I have homework.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. Hurt and confusion flicker over his face, but he doesn’t push.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says.
“Maybe.”
I slip inside before he can say anything else, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Upstairs in my tiny bedroom, I try to do homework, but I can’t focus. Instead, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that’s happened.
I can’t do this.
I can’t keep this secret from Cristiano. Pretending everything is normal is going to drive me insane. I have to tell him, and then we can figure it out together. If he’s angry with me, then so be it, but I hope he can forgive me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m off the bed and down the stairs. Through the staff corridors, into the main house, and along the corridor toward Cristiano’s bedroom. My blood is rushing so loudly in my ears I can barely hear my own footsteps.
His bedroom is at the end of the hall. I’ve never been inside, even when we were children. His father would fly into a rage if he caught the housekeeper’s daughter in his son’s private space.
My hand is trembling, but I curl it into a fist and force myself to knock.
There are soft footsteps on carpet, and the door swings open.
Cristiano stands there in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. Without his blazer and tie, he looks younger. Softer. But his eyes sharpen when he sees me, surprise flickering in those amber depths.
“Mina. Is everything okay?”
“I need to talk to you.”
He steps back immediately, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I’m already crossing the threshold, and the door is closing behind me with a soft click.
His room is exactly as I remember it. A huge bed that makes my cheeks heat just to glance at it. An antique wardrobe with an iron key in the lock. A desk covered in textbooks and neat stacks of papers.
The curtains are drawn against the evening light, and the room is dim and intimate.
I stand in front of him, my hands twisting together. He’s so close that I can see a few droplets of water on his throat.
“I did something,” I say. My voice comes out hoarse. “Something bad.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday. In the garden.” I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I talked to your mother.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “You talked to Mom?”
“About you.” The words start tumbling out, faster and faster. “I told her she should love you more. That you deserved better, and you were lonely and hurting and she never even looks at you.” My voice cracks. “I made her cry, Cristiano. I made your mother cry.”
His expression is unreadable. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I can’t stand watching you suffer!” The tears are coming now, hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks. “No one sees how much pain you’re in. Your father hits you, and your mother won’t even look at you, and I thought if I could just make her understand—”
I break off, pressing my hands to my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob. “I’m so afraid I’ve made everything worse for you.”
“Mina.” His voice is soft. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away my tears. “Mina, look at me.”
I look at him through blurred vision. He’s so close. His eyes are warm, tender, full of something that makes my chest ache.
“It’s all right,” he says. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“How can you say that? I made her cry.”
“I don’t care about her tears.” His voice is fierce now, intense. “I care about you.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding.
“You’re the only person I need.” He’s leaning closer, his forehead almost touching mine. “The only person who cares about me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, I feel uneasy. He should care that I made his mother cry.
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” I whisper. “I’ve been thinking, and I—” I take a shaky breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”
He goes completely still. “What?”
“I don’t think we should be friends anymore,” I say more firmly.
Then my heart cracks with emotion, because I hate to do this to us.
“Where is our friendship even going? People talk about us behind our backs, saying we don’t make sense, and maybe they’re right.
You see me in this house, but it’s not my world. ”
Cristiano is rigid, like he’s been turned to stone.
“And it’s not safe.” I’m babbling now, desperate to make him understand. “For either of us. Your father hates me, and I’m only making things harder for you. If I just stayed away—”
“No.”
The word is flat. Cold. Final.
I blink. “Cristiano?”
“No.” His eyes are different now. Darker. Emptier. “You can’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you. I’m just saying that we should spend less time together.”
“You can’t leave me. You’re the only person I have, and the only person who matters.” His jaw clenches.
“But I shouldn’t be the only person who matters to you. Don’t you see?”
His eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my blood run cold.
“I’ll die if you leave me.” The words are quiet. Matter-of-fact. “I won’t let you leave me.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“Cristiano, you can’t say things like that.”
“I mean it.” He seizes my hands, gripping them so tight it hurts. “I won’t let you leave me. I can’t. You have to understand, you’re everything to me. Without you, I’m nothing. I’m no one.”
I try to pull my hands back, but his grip is iron.
“You’re hurting me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t let go.
“Promise me.” His voice is shaking now. “Promise me you won’t leave. Promise me you’ll stay.”
“Cristiano, please—”
“Promise me!”
I yank my hands free and stumble away. My whole body is trembling.
“I should go,” I say. “I need to go.”
I turn toward the door, but he’s faster.
He’s between me and the exit before I can take two steps, his body blocking my path. He’s so tall, so broad, filling the doorway like a wall. In the past I’ve admired how muscular he is, but now his body looks like a threat.
“Cristiano.” My voice is high and thin. “Move.”
“You can’t leave.” His eyes are wild, desperate. “Not yet. Not like this.”
“Move. Please.”
“I can’t let you go when you’re talking about ending things.”
I take a step back. Then another.
He matches me, step for step.
“Cristiano, you’re scaring me.”
I search his face for pain or regret, but there’s only that terrible intensity.
“I would never hurt you,” he says. “I just need you to listen to me. I need you to understand.”
“I understand. I do. But I need to go.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No. If you leave now, you’ll never come back. I know you. You’ll convince yourself that this is for the best, and you’ll stay away, and I’ll lose—”
He breaks off, his chest heaving.
Then his head snaps toward the door, and he freezes.
“You hear that?” he whispers. “Dad. He’s coming.”
I strain my ears, but I don’t hear footsteps. Just the thud of my own terrified heart. “I don’t hear anything.”
“He’s coming.” Cristiano’s eyes are wide, urgent. “Mina, you have to hide.”
“Cristiano, I don’t think—”