Chapter 8
ELENA
Just as darkness began to swallow me whole, he released me.
I collapsed forward, gasping violently, ragged sobs tearing from my raw throat as I gulped down air in desperate, heaving breaths.
My chest heaved, tears streaming down my face while my vision swam and my hands trembled uncontrollably.
“I’ve never... done that before,” I whispered, my voice raw and tremulous, barely above a broken rasp.
There was no defiance left in me.
No fight.
Only honest fear.
Because I could see it clearly in his eyes: cold, murderous intent.
He hated me enough to kill me right here, and no one would ever know.
No one would come.
His eyes darkened as he studied me.
“Even better,” he murmured.
I forced my gaze downward, staring at the thick, rigid outline straining against the front of his trousers.
My mouth went dry instantly, a sharp pulse of heat flooding between my thighs before my mind could catch up.
Swallowing hard, I moved as if on instinct, slowly sinking to my knees on the carpet.
The rough fibers dug into my skin, a harsh reminder of how real this was — how completely I was submitting.
My heart hammered wildly as I settled there, gaze locked on the unmistakable bulge just inches from my face, the weight of his command still burning in my ears.
My hands trembled as I reached for his belt.
Leather slid through the buckle with a soft, controlled sound.
The button came undone, then the zipper, each noise magnified in the quiet room, each movement charged with an unspoken anticipation.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband, poised and ready, when the sharp ring of his phone cut through the tension like a blade.
He froze, subtle but undeniable, and I felt the imperceptible shift of his control.
He reached for the phone, but his eyes never left mine.
The weight of his gaze pressed down, demanding obedience even as his hand lifted the device.
I remained where I was, suspended on my knees, caught between compliance and a dangerous desire that I could not name.
He glanced at the screen, and immediately his expression changed.
His jaw tightened, his eyes flattened into steel, and the heat, the hunger, the barely restrained lust vanished as if it had never existed.
Control returned fully, absolute and unyielding.
He spoke into the phone, clipped and final, issuing commands that left no room for negotiation.
The conversation ended, the device returned to his pocket, and not once did he glance at me.
Without a word, he restored himself with deliberate precision.
He zipped, buttoned, picked up his shirt, slipped one arm through the sleeve, then the other, and buttoned it from the bottom up.
Each movement was precise and unhurried.
He slipped into his jacket and smoothed the lapels with a final, deliberate touch, as though nothing had ever happened, as though I did not exist.
I remained on my knees, my chest heaving with shallow breaths and my pulse hammering in my ears.
Humiliation came in waves that burned through me.
I had knelt.
I had obeyed.
And now he was leaving.
There was no acknowledgement.
He walked to the door and unlocked it.
He opened it, paused, and then left.
The soft click of the door closing was final, and the room seemed to collapse in silence around me.
I remained there, frozen.
Throat raw from his grip.
Lips still tingling from his kiss.
My knees pressed into the carpet, my arms wrapped loosely around them as if holding myself together could shield me from what I had just felt.
I stayed there.
Three minutes.
Maybe more.
Breathing shallow. Still on my knees.
Still trying to process what had just happened.
Then, slowly—my legs obeyed.
I pushed myself upright.
My knees screamed in protest.
A dull, throbbing ache spread through them.
My hands trembled as I steadied myself.
I curled them into fists.
Hard.
Anything to stop the shaking. Anything to stop the feeling.
I felt like trash. Worse than trash.
A wife who had been ordered to her knees.
And then left there.
Unfinished. Unseen.
Unimportant.
How much humiliation could one woman swallow in a single night?
I forced my breathing to slow.
I refused to cry.
Vincenzo didn’t deserve my tears.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I turned away from the door.
Crossed the room.
Each step heavier than the last.
Until I reached the dresser.
The small black box from Matteo Alvarez sat exactly where I had left it.
Untouched. Perfect.
Wrapped in obscene luxury.
Silver filigree pressed into its surface like something delicate and expensive.
A wax seal stamped with the Alvarez crest held everything together.
Elegant.
My fingers trembled as I reached for it.
I tore the ribbon off first.
Sharp. Unceremonious.
The paper peeled away beneath my hands.
Inside—a velvet box.
Deep burgundy. Hinged.
I opened it.
Another layer. Black tissue paper. Folded with obsessive care.
I pulled it aside.
Inside that—a small satin pouch.
My stomach tightened.
Slowly, I untied the drawstring.
Opened it.
A crystal bottle slid into my palm.
Small. Delicate.
No bigger than a perfume vial. Stoppered with a faceted glass cork.
The liquid inside shimmered.
Pale amber. Beautiful. Unassuming.
My brow furrowed slightly.
I lifted it closer to the light.
Read the tiny gold-foil label.
Peach liqueur. Artisanal. Small-batch.
Infused with real fruit essence.
My stomach dropped.
The world tilted slightly.
No.
No—
I twisted the stopper open. The scent hit me instantly.
Sweet. Heavy. Undeniable.
Peach.
My greatest allergy. My greatest vulnerability.
The same scent that had nearly killed me at the altar.
My throat tightened on instinct.
I slammed the stopper back in place and dropped the bottle onto the bed as if it had burned me.
My breath came shallower.
I stumbled back three steps, clutching my stomach as nausea surged through me in sick, rolling waves.
My throat tightened—not from anaphylaxis yet—but from memory. From fear.
From knowing exactly what this could do to me.
How did they know?
Vincenzo had known. Since we were children.
I had told him in that cave.
But the Alvarez family?
How?
My mind raced.
Was this a message?
A warning? A threat? A test?
My gaze dropped to the bottle again.
Resting on the bed.
Harmless. Beautiful. Deadly.
They hadn’t just sent a gift.
They had wrapped my death in silk and ribbon—and called it tradition.
I stood there—heart hammering, skin crawling—until the nausea finally loosened its grip.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
Like something being pulled back from the edge.
My breathing steadied in uneven increments. The tightness in my throat eased just enough for me to swallow without pain.
My fingers stopped trembling—barely.
Then I moved.
Fast.
I yanked open the closet doors and reached inside, grabbing whatever my hands landed on first.
My movements were sharp, almost angry—like I could physically outrun the memory of that bottle, that scent, that moment.
Long black lounge pants.
Soft. Loose.
An oversized charcoal hoodie followed—thick, heavy fabric that swallowed me whole.
One of dozens of pieces Chiara had insisted I take on the second day of this sham marriage.
Chiara — the head chef.
He had personally asked her to escort me to that exclusive boutique overlooking the hills of Lombardy.
I still remembered walking in with nothing but the clothes on my back and a knot of unease in my stomach.
No money. No power. Just me.
I walked out with armfuls of bags.
Silk blouses that whispered against my skin. Cashmere sweaters softer than anything I’d ever owned. Tailored jackets that made me look like I belonged.
And lingerie — delicate, expensive, and utterly unwanted.
All of it already paid for.
Vincenzo had handled everything behind the scenes.
He’d simply told them: “Let her take whatever she wants.”
One of the few mercies he’d ever shown me.
Or maybe it wasn’t mercy at all.
Maybe it was just another form of control — dressing me up like a doll that belonged to him.
Marking me.
Making sure I looked the part of the wife he owned.
I slid the hoodie on. Zipped it all the way to my chin.
Pulled the sleeves down until they covered my hands.
The fabric wrapped around me like armor.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror.
And for a moment—I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
Scarred.
Not just on the skin. But in the eyes.
In the posture. In the stillness.
Anger churned beneath my skin.
Matteo could try to kill me with peaches, wrapping death in elegance and calling it a gift.
Vincenzo could humiliate me with trays of food, with commands designed to strip me down, layer by layer.
But I would not break.
I spun away from the mirror and barreled out of the bedroom.
Bare feet struck the cold marble, two steps at a time, as I descended the grand staircase, heart hammering.
The sound echoed.
Sharp.
Like gunfire in the hollow quiet of the house.
My chest rose and fell rapidly—not just from the movement, but from the anger building inside me.
A slow, burning escalation that had nowhere else to go.
The dining room came into view at the bottom of the stairs.
Everything looked untouched.
Candles burned low—wax melted into uneven pools.
Plates still sat on the table, remnants of osso buco cooling under the dim light. The faint aroma lingered in the air, mixed with something sweeter.
Blood-orange petals.
Decorative.
Violet’s chair was pushed slightly back, as if she had leaned into him one last time before leaving.
As if she had belonged there.
As if she still did. I could almost smell her perfume.
Soft. Expensive. Polished.
The opposite of the smoke and steel that clung to Vincenzo.
The contrast made something sharp twist in my chest.
My jaw locked so hard my teeth ached.
I wanted to flip the table. Watch the plates shatter.
See the glass break. Destroy something.
Anything.
To match the chaos building inside me.