Chapter 20
LILIANA
The knock comes earlier than I expected.
Giovanni is already up, standing at the edge of the room like he’s been waiting for it.
I sit straighter, my hands folded over my lap.
The door opens, and the doctor walks in—older, with silver at his temples and eyes that don’t wander.
He doesn’t stare, doesn’t linger on anything too long.
Just offers a nod and moves with practiced ease.
He doesn’t ask me to get up. Instead, he pulls a chair closer, opening his leather bag with quiet hands. Giovanni stands behind me, his palm resting lightly on the back of my chair. I don’t have to look to know he’s watching everything.
The doctor explains what he’s doing, voice calm, without theatrics. I nod, signaling that I understand. I can feel Giovanni’s gaze move over me, steady and unreadable, but not cold. The man draws blood, checks my pressure, makes notes in a small black journal. His hands are sure, his questions few.
When he’s done, he leans back slightly and meets my eyes.
"Your hormone levels are a bit higher than the standard range," he says, tone even. "But that doesn’t mean anything dangerous. Some women have strong early responses. It’s nothing to worry about. You’re healthy. So is the baby."
Giovanni’s hand shifts on my chair. I glance up at him, then back at the doctor.
"What should she be doing?" Giovanni asks.
The doctor gives a faint smile. "Rest. Eat. Hydrate. I’ll leave supplements. No stress, if that’s possible."
My eyes flicker with something close to humor. I catch Giovanni’s glance, and I sign with a slow lift of my hands. No stress. That part will be tricky.
His mouth twitches, but he says nothing. I feel free with him now, freer than I've ever been in my entire life.
The doctor gathers his things, offers another nod, and tells us he’ll be back in a week unless we need him sooner. He pauses before leaving, his gaze steady. “You’re both doing well. Keep it simple.”
Then he’s gone.
Giovanni moves in front of me, crouching down with one hand on my knee. His thumb moves slowly over the fabric of my pants, a grounding motion. “You good?”
I nod, but I don’t move yet. I let my hands speak. It feels more real now.
His eyes hold mine. “It is real.”
His hand shifts to my waist, pulling me toward him. I lean forward, letting myself press into his chest. The scent of him is familiar, the heat of his body steady. He doesn’t rush the moment. His hand runs slowly along my back, fingers splaying at the center like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
When I pull back, he’s already watching me. He lifts a hand to my face, brushing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. There’s a tenderness in his expression I haven’t seen in days. Not like this.
He kisses me, like the world has gone quiet just for us.
I respond without thought, without fear.
My hands move to his chest, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.
His kiss deepens, his breath catching. My body follows the pull of his until I’m straddling his lap, his arms locked around me like I belong there.
He stands with me in his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding tight. We’re almost at the bed when another knock slices through the quiet.
We both freeze.
Giovanni groans low, his brow resting against mine for a brief second before he lowers me gently to the floor. “Stay here,” he mutters. His tone is calm, but I feel the frustration in his body as he steps away.
I sit on the edge of the bed, adjusting my shirt, fingers smoothing down the fabric. I don’t have time to guess who it is before I hear his voice.
“Hi. I hope I’m not early.”
Giovanni lets him in. He’s tall and young, with a halo of hair and a confident walk. A clipboard is tucked under one arm, and his eyes sweep the room quickly before landing on me.
“Mrs. Renzetti?”
I nod, watching him.
He smiles. His smile is bright but not overbearing. “I’m Marco De Rossi, address me as Marco. I'm your speech therapy consultant. Your husband didn’t mention how stunning you are.”
My brow lifts slightly, caught off guard. He walks forward with an ease that makes it hard to dislike him.
“I’m just here to introduce myself today. Get a feel for your comfort zone, nothing intense.”
I lift my hands. Hello.
His eyes light up. He signs back slowly, carefully. Hello, madam.
I nod again. My hands move. How are you?
“I am fine. I was Alessio’s speech therapist,” he replies. His voice is gentle, light, and it's without condescension.
Giovanni stays in the room but gives us space. Marco asks about my dominant hand, if I struggle with any signs, and whether I’d be open to practicing some vocalization alongside it. I answer with signs. He watches closely, taking notes. He’s sharp, but not overbearing. He doesn’t try to rush me.
By the time he leaves, I find myself genuinely surprised. I walk him to the door and offer a small smile. He squeezes my hand and promises to return tomorrow.
When I turn back, Giovanni is watching me from the far side of the room.
“You like him,” he says simply.
I nod.
He crosses the space between us and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Good.”
The rest of the day moves slowly. I spend some time in the garden, tucked beneath the arch of an olive tree with a book in my lap. The guards drift past now and then, never too close. The sun filters through the leaves. I try not to think too hard.
By late afternoon, I return inside. The air is quieter now, the light falling softer through the windows. I’m on my way back from the garden, ready to settle down for a while, maybe find something to read. But as I turn into the hallway leading toward the southern wing, I slow.
Camilla.
She’s halfway down the corridor, arms full, trying to balance a wide glass vase and a thick roll of fabric that keeps slipping from her elbow. She doesn’t see me. Her heel catches on the rug. The vase shifts, unsteady.
Something in me stills. I don’t trust her.
My feet nearly stop, a deep reflex urging me to step back and avoid the interaction entirely. I’ve learned too well how her words can be used as weapons. A small part of me wonders if this is some new trick, a set-up waiting to snap shut around me.
But when the vase tips, instinct overrides hesitation. I step in and catch it before it crashes. The glass is cool against my hands. I feel its weight steady.
She startles. Her eyes snap up to mine, wide and unguarded. For a second, she forgets her mask.
“Thanks,” she says, breathless.
I nod. Nothing more. I reach for the fabric next, lifting it off her arm. Her fingers tense like she might protest, but she doesn’t. She lets me take it.
Together, we walk the remaining steps to a sitting room just off the hall. She places the vase on the table, careful now, both hands lingering on it longer than necessary. I lay the fabric down, smoothing it across the polished wood, before retrieving my hands. I don’t look at her.
The silence stretches between us, but I don’t sign. Not yet.
I stay still, my hands resting in my lap, eyes trained on the roll of fabric I’ve just smoothed across the table.
My breath is even, but inside, I feel the thrum of something I can’t quite name.
She’s never spoken like this before. Never stood in front of me without some sharp edge glinting beneath the surface.
Then, she says something I don't quite catch until she repeats it. “I was horrible to you.”
It's unexpected, and it totally caught me off guard. I don’t move. I don’t flinch. But there’s something in the way my spine stays taut, the way my fingers curl just slightly against my thigh.
The memories come back sharp. Her words, her stares, her constant reminders that I didn’t belong here. That I was nothing but a blemish in a world she thought was hers alone.
I keep my face calm. I’ve had enough practice hiding what’s under the surface. But I hear it.
I hear the crack in her voice when she says, “I was angry. Entitled. Jealous.”
The honesty in it feels raw. I keep my gaze on the fabric. I don’t help her out of the discomfort.
“I was,” she says again. “From the moment you arrived. I judged you. I dismissed you. I made it hard for you to breathe in this house, and I knew it.
I look up at her. Not away. At her. She doesn’t falter.
“I was angry, yes. But also jealous. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. You just... appeared. And I couldn’t stand how easily he let you in. How different he was around you.”
Her lips press together. “I told myself I was protecting something. Giovanni, this house, his reputation. But I wasn’t. I was protecting my pride. I see that now. Because I had thought he would finally choose me.”
She admits what I already knew, but never thought I’d hear out loud. That she made me her enemy before I’d even had the chance to find my footing. That she aimed for soft places. That she pressed on wounds with a smile on her face.
And now she’s looking at me, her eyes steady, as if she wants to hand it over like a confession, laid bare in the quiet.
“I’m sorry, Liliana.”
The words fall into the air between us, and they land hard.
My throat tightens, not from pain, but from the pressure of everything that wants to surface. The hurt I’ve carried. The shame. The way I used to shrink when I saw her coming. The nights I wondered if Giovanni would see me the way she did—as small, as dispensable.
I breathe in slowly, deeply. Then I lift my hands and sign, calm but deliberate.
I accept your apology. But I need you to understand that the next time you insult me, you will regret it more than you can imagine.
I have tolerated you because of my husband and his mother; you are like family to them, but the disrespect ends now.
Her eyes widen, and for the first time, I see her caught off guard. Like she's shocked that I have claws, and I'm showing them.
Then she laughs. It's not cruel, not mocking. Just a quiet, surprised sound that’s almost human.
“Fair. I'll take it.” She hesitates. “Thank you, Liliana.”
She says nothing else. Just nods once, and walks out.
But this time, she doesn’t do it with her chin lifted in superiority or her eyes scanning me like I’m something she’s trying to scrub out of the picture. She walks out quieter. Like maybe she’s realized I’m not going anywhere.
I don't move immediately, I stay there a moment longer. Still.
My heart doesn’t slow immediately. The tension doesn’t bleed out right away. Because part of me expected her to twist the moment, to turn and strike when I was close. The habit of caution isn’t so easy to shed.
But maybe that was real. Maybe.
And even if it wasn’t, I know one thing for certain. I’m not that quiet, timid girl anymore.
Later, I find Giovanni in his study, standing at the window with a half-empty glass of something dark in his hand. I slip inside, and he turns at the sound.
I sign without hesitation. Camilla apologized.
He lifts a brow. “She did?”
I nod. I helped her earlier. She was... sincere.
He sets the glass aside and pulls me into his arms. His hand rests low at my back, his chin dipping until his forehead touches mine.
“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “It’s about time.”
I nod once, closing my eyes. The weight of the day begins to settle, but not heavily. Not like before.
This time, it feels like something is softening around the edges.
Maybe not everything is safe. But for now, here in his arms, I let myself believe it might be.