Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Olivia
The curtains stayed drawn.
It had been six months.
I couldn't remember when I'd stopped pulling them open. Mornings, I'd wake up to a thin sliver of light sneaking through the edge. I'd stare at it, watch it shift from white to yellow to dim, watch it vanish, watch the room sink back into darkness.
Whole days slipped by like that.
I'd tried getting up. Yeah, tried. Sat up, feet hitting the floor, then just sat there, no clue what to do next, where to go, how to fill the damn day.
So I'd lie back down.
Where was Juliet?
That thought nailed me right in the chest. Not deep, but constant, pricking with every breath. I knew she was in this house, down a couple of hallways, behind a door I'd been blocked from three times already. I knew she was here.
But I couldn't get to her.
My phone sat on the nightstand. Over these six months, it had rung a ton. Ella's name popping up, Sophie's too. Most times, I ignored it. When I picked up, I'd just say, "I'm fine," "Nothing's wrong," "Busy."
They didn't buy it.
But they were in another city, staring at screens, powerless.
The phone rang.
I grabbed it, glanced—Ella.
I hit answer.
"Olivia!"
Her voice burst out, same old loud-ass energy.
"Guess where I am? Milan! On a business trip! Flying to New York tomorrow! Want me to grab you something? Designer bag? Italian goodies? You're a fancy lady now, gotta match the vibe."
I laughed.
It was faint, so faint I barely felt it.
"No need," I said. "Just do your thing."
"Do my thing? It's no big deal. Seriously, what do you want? Perfume? Jewelry? Or—"
"Ella."
I cut her off.
"Really, no. I... I don't need anything."
She paused.
"Your voice sounds off."
"Off how?"
"Weak," she said. "Like you haven't eaten in three days. No, like three months. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said. "Maybe just woke up."
"Just woke up? It's three in the afternoon!"
"I... stayed up late last night."
Silence.
Those few seconds made my palms sweat.
"Olivia." Ella's tone shifted, dropping the bubbly shit. "Be straight with me. Something happened?"
"No."
"Then why dodge my calls? I've rung you how many times in six months? How many did you answer?"
"I... been busy."
"Busy with what? Being a rich wife? Afternoon tea? Spa days?"
I stayed quiet.
"Olivia."
Her voice dropped lower.
"Look at me—no, listen. You can't fool me. Never could, since we were kids. What's really going on?"
I gripped the phone.
My throat clogged up.
"Nothing."
"Olivia."
"Really nothing."
"Olivia Adrian!"
She yelled my full name. The one only she and my sister used.
My eyes stung suddenly.
"Ella..."
"Spit it out."
I opened my mouth.
The words had crushed my chest for six months, stealing my breath. I wanted to say them, but where to start? The delivery room? The nursery? Bianca? Or that day in the garden, what she told me?
"I..."
One word, and tears flooded out.
Not slow ones—sudden, like a dam breaking. I clamped my mouth, not wanting her to hear, but sobs leaked through my fingers.
"Fuck!" Ella yelled on the other end. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! What happened?! Don't cry! Talk!"
I cried too hard to speak.
She waited.
Waited till I stopped.
Till I caught my breath.
Then I spilled.
In the delivery room, they took the baby. He said "scheduled visits." Bianca moved in. That nursery door...
I talked, tears streaming. Six months buried inside, rotting, now ripping open like a fresh wound.
Ella stayed silent.
Till I finished.
"So for six months," her voice heavy, "you've been like this, hiding it from us?"
"I..."
"Olivia, listen." Her tone dead serious. "Leave. Now. That bastard, that woman, that shitty place—fuck 'em all. Come to me. I'll take care of you. Hear me?"
I closed my eyes.
"Juliet's here."
Saying it stunned me.
Just those words pinned me down. For six months.
Quiet on the line for seconds.
"Olivia," Ella said, softer. "Is there more?"
I didn't answer.
That tiny thread was so small, I was ashamed to admit it—that faint, ridiculous spark that should've died, still flickering in some corner.
Silence.
Long-ass silence.
Then Ella sighed.
"Olivia, you're gonna kill yourself like this."
I said nothing.
"Lying there, not eating, not drinking, not going out, not seeing anyone—you'll die."
I knew.
But I didn't know what to do.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Think about what—"
"Gotta go."
"Olivia—"
I hung up.
Tossed the phone aside.
Kept lying there.
Ella's words echoed in my head.
Should I really leave?
It must've been early morning when footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Not a servant's—too heavy, too sloppy, with that drunk sway I recognized instantly. I stared at the ceiling, listening as they got closer, stopped at my door, then—
The door opened. No knock.
He stood there, suit collar loose, tie dangling, hair messed up. In the hallway light spilling in, I saw his eyes. Unfocused, foggy.
Booze reeked. Strong.
He was wasted.
I didn't move.
He stepped in, came to the bed, and looked down at me.
"You're awake."
I said nothing, just looked away.
He sat on the edge. The mattress dipped.
"Olivia."
I stared at the ceiling.
A hand reached, grabbed my chin, and turned my face.
"Look at me."
I looked into his eyes. Those green ones, scattered now, bloodshot.
He stared.
For a long time.
"How long since you looked at me?" he asked.
His voice low and raspy from the alcohol.
I stayed quiet.
"Every time I come," he said, "you don't look. Just lie there, staring up. I call you, no answer. I talk, you ignore. I stand here like a fucking idiot."
He let go.
"What do you want from me?"
I looked at his face.
It was more worn than six months ago. Dark circles, brow furrows, lips tight.
"What do I want from you?" I said.
He blinked.
My voice soft. "I want my kid back. Want that woman out. Want you to—"
"Enough."
He cut me off.
"I know you hate me."
I laughed a little, met his eyes.
He watched me.
Just like that, through the dark, the booze stink, the six months. Fog still in his eyes, but something behind it—I saw it, didn't know what, didn't want to.
"Then what?" I said. "Want me to say I hate you? Then what?"
His brows twitched. He opened his mouth—I didn't know what he'd say, probably didn't either. Silence dropped between us, heavy with booze, with six months.
Then he leaned down and kissed me.
I didn't move. Just ached inside, numb.
Booze hit me, lip heat hit me, his hand braced on the pillow by my face, weight pressing. Something in my body started loosening—that familiar, stupid loosening. I hated it, but couldn't stop it.
I didn't move. Didn't kiss back.
He pulled back, looked up.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Whatever," I said.
"What?"
"Do it if you want." I looked at him. "The contract doesn't say I can refuse you."
His eyes changed.
Fog cleared fast, replaced by something hotter, sharper. He stared, something burning in those eyes.
"You're my wife," he said.
"Yeah."
"So you're not—"
"What am I?" I sat up, faced him. "Ezio, what? Bought with a contract? The woman the elders forced you to marry? Or the one you let Bianca move in to 'teach'—"
He kissed me hard.
Not like before—forceful, loaded with pent-up shit. My back hit the bed, his weight crushed down. I pushed his shoulder—didn't budge. His hand clamped my chin, pinned me.
My nails dug into his sleeve.
He lifted his head, eyes close. "Don't push me."
I looked at him, heart splitting with pain.
"Push you how?" I said. "Push you to admit I'm a tool? That you only want her? Push you—"
He didn't let me finish.
He dove down.
Fabric ripped loud in the quiet room. His hands pressed on me, body slamming down, breath hot on my face.
His grip tightened on my wrists, yanking them above my head.
I twisted, but he was stronger, fueled by that raw anger boiling over.
"You think you can just lie there like a fucking corpse?
" he growled, voice thick with booze and fury.
He grabbed his tie from the floor, looped it around my wrists in a quick, rough knot, tying them to the headboard.
The silk bit into my skin, not enough to cut, but tight enough to remind me who was in control.
I yanked against it, heart pounding. "Let me go, you bastard!"
He smirked, dark and dangerous, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "No. You've been pushing me for months. Ignoring me. Acting like I don't exist." His hand slid down, shoving my nightgown up, exposing me. Cool air hit my skin, but his touch burned. "Time you remember who's in charge."
I kicked out, but he pinned my legs with his knees, weight trapping me. His palm cracked down on my ass—sharp, stinging. I yelped, the pain flashing hot, mixing with something twisted inside. "Ezio, stop—"
Another smack, harder. My skin burned, cheeks flushing from the impact. "That's for every time you looked away." Smack. "For every silent treatment." Smack. The rhythm built, each one sending jolts through me, my body betraying me even as I fought.
I'd gone six months without this—without him, without anyone. No touch, no release. My core clenched, traitorous heat building despite the anger. I hated it, hated how my thighs trembled, how wetness started pooling between my legs.
He noticed. Of course he did. His fingers dipped down, sliding through the slickness. "Look at that," he murmured, voice rough, pulling his hand back， glistening. "All this? It's you. Dripping for me, even when you fight."
"Fuck you," I spat, but my voice cracked, body arching against my will as he teased, circling my clit with expert pressure. His thumb pressed in, slow circles that made stars burst behind my eyes. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the moan, but it slipped out, low and desperate.
He chuckled darkly, bringing his fingers to my lips. "Taste yourself. See how much you want this."