Chapter 9 #2
I turned my head, but he gripped my jaw, forcing them in. Saltiness hit my tongue, humiliating, intimate. Tears pricked my eyes, spilling over as the reality crashed—me, tied up, him punishing me like this.
The tears came harder, sobs shaking me. His face changed—panic flickered in those green eyes. "Olivia..." He untied the knot fast, hands gentle now, pulling me up. "Shit, I didn't mean—"
I slapped him. Hard. Palm cracking across his cheek, the sound echoing. "You fucking asshole! You think you can just tie me up, hit me, treat me like your toy? After everything? After taking my kid, letting her in here?"
He touched his face, stunned, eyes wide with hurt. For a second, guilt flashed—yeah, he looked sorry, almost tender. But then anger flared back, hotter. "You hit me?" He grabbed my hips, flipping me onto my stomach, yanking me back against him. "Fine. You wanna fight? Let's fight."
His cock pressed against me, hard and insistent. No prep, just raw need. He thrust in deep—one brutal push that filled me completely, stretching me to the limit. I gasped, cursing. "You son of a bitch—get off—"
But he didn't. He pulled back, slammed in again, deeper, hitting spots that made my vision blur.
"Shut up and take it," he growled, hand fisting my hair, pulling my head back.
Each thrust pounded harder, relentless, his hips slapping against my ass, the earlier smacks leaving me sensitive, every movement amplifying the mix of pain and pleasure.
I cursed him, words spilling out— "I hate you, you bastard, you ruined everything—" but my body betrayed me again, clenching around him, wetness coating us both. He drove deeper, angling to hit that sweet spot over and over, building that coil tight inside me.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, pace quickening, one hand reaching around to rub my clit in fast circles. "Come for me, Olivia. Admit you need this."
I fought it, but the pressure built, waves crashing. My curses turned to moans, resistance crumbling as he fucked me senseless, deep and unyielding. Orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through me, making me scream his name despite everything.
He followed, thrusting erratically, spilling inside with a guttural moan.
After, he collapsed on me, breathing hard.
In the dark, his arm shifted, trying to pull me close.
I shifted away.
Two inches.
Just two, but his hand froze.
The room went silent. I felt those two inches like an invisible wall, like something finally spelled out clearly.
He sat up.
I heard him dressing, belt buckling, footsteps heading to the door. Not the sloppy drunk ones from before— heavier, something I couldn't name.
Door opened, closed.
Hallway light vanished from the crack.
I curled up alone on the bed.
Then I cried, sobbed till I couldn't breathe, till my body ached, pain surging from deep inside, like something shattering bit by bit, sinking, shattering more, sinking deeper.
Light at the curtain edge shifted from black to gray, gray to white.
Body exhausted, but no sleep.
Mind a mess.
I thought of him last night—drunk, pissed, eyes holding something I couldn't read.
Thought of him saying, "You're my wife."
Thought of me saying, "I hate you."
Then thought of the kid.
Juliet.
My daughter.
Three months since I'd seen her.
Three months.
What did she look like now? Taller? Smiling?
Or—
Had she forgotten me?
I sat up.
Got out of bed, changed, and left the room.
Hallway quiet, just my footsteps.
Reached the stairs, looked down.
Sun streamed through the big windows, hitting the marble floor.
Bright.
Blinding.
I gripped the railing, went down slowly.
Each step heavy.
Through the hall, pushed open the door, into the garden.
Sun even brighter.
I squinted, spotted the gazebo far off. Bianca sat there, holding a tiny figure.
Juliet.
My steps faltered.
Then sped up.
Bianca looked up, saw me, and smiled.
"Mrs. Visconti," she said, voice sweet. "Good morning."
I ignored her.
Just stared at the baby in her arms.
Juliet.
She'd grown.
Round little face, pale skin, blonde hair shining in the sun. Eyes open, fixed on Bianca's face, tiny hand clutching her clothes.
"Juliet." My voice shook.
No reaction.
"Juliet," I said it again, stepped closer.
Bianca stood.
"She just woke up, a bit fussy," she said, still sweet. "Mrs. Visconti, stay back. Don't scare her."
"She's my kid," I said.
"I know." Bianca smiled. "But she doesn't know you now."
Those words knifed my heart.
"What?"
"See?" Bianca looked down at Juliet, voice soft. "She clings to me. Won't let go."
My world stopped.
"Cute, right?" Bianca looked up, eyes full of triumph.
I stared at her, at that gentle, elegant, perfect face, barely breathing.
"You—"
"Margaret." She called. The maid stepped out from behind the gazebo. "Take Miss Juliet back. Nap time."
The maid took Juliet from her.
Juliet looked at Bianca, tiny hand reaching out, like begging to stay.
"Gulu," she said, small voice.
"Be good, sweetie." Bianca kissed her forehead. "Mommy'll be there soon."
The maid carried Juliet away.
I wanted to chase.
But Bianca blocked me.
"Move," I said.
"No." She smiled. "We need to talk."
I glared.
"You know who I am?" she said. "Mrs. Visconti, do you?"
"Colonna family," I said.
She laughed, not happy, something else.
"Bianca Colonna," she said. "The one Ezio knew since we were kids. The one he planned to marry." Pause. "If you hadn't shown up—if you hadn't set him up that night, made him slip, got yourself knocked up—I'd be here with a different name."
"I didn't—"
"He married you for the kid," she cut in, voice light, soft. "That's it. You know that."
I stared, silent.
She eyed my face, lips curving. Then she placed a hand on her belly.
That curve.
The pale pink robe hid it, but it was there. My gaze dropped to her hand, to that curve. Something snapped in my head.
"These six months," she said, tone flat, "Ezio's been coming to me."
Wind rustled the manor trees, grass stirred, and went still.
"He's always loved me. From the start."
Something sank in my throat, slow, into a bottomless dark.
"Juliet'll grow up with me," she went on, voice casual, like it was set. "Call me mommy. Kids forget quick. She's so young—won't be long till she forgets some Olivia ever existed."
"And you," she stepped back, fixed her robe collar. "Once my baby's born, you're done. Used up things get tossed."
She gave me one last look, eyes calm, victorious.
"Understand, Mrs. Visconti?"
She turned, walked to the side door on the grass, pink robe fluttering in the morning light, graceful, like she'd just popped out for air and chit-chat.
Door closed behind her.
I stood on the grass.
Dew soaked my shoes. I didn't move, didn't cry right away. Just stood, feeling something drain from my chest, inch by inch, into an endless pit.
Juliet.
She'd call her mommy.
Forget me.
I took a step.
Foot hit grass, unsteady. I glanced down, kept going. Through the garden, side door, into the manor hall. Light dimmer inside, eyes blurred. I stopped, leaned on the wall.
My mate wasn't my mate. He had another woman. They had a kid.
It all replayed in my head, slow, each piece landing hard, sinking in, marking.
I kept walking.
Hall long. Steps lighter, or floating, like not quite touching ground. Eyes burned. I didn't wipe, just walked, tears streaming. Hall floor blurred in my vision. I didn't stop—if I did, I might not start again.
At the stairs, my legs buckled.
Gripped the railing, paused.
Stomach surged. I closed eyes, swallowed it, deep breath, went up.
Back to the room.
Closed the door.
Curtains drawn, light sliver still there, white, morning, hitting the floor at my feet. I stood in it, feeling empty, so empty the next breath felt cold.
Time to go.
Clear this time. No blurring it with "think more," "wait," or that ridiculous thread I'd hidden for six months, pinned to nothing.
Just—go.
Went to the closet.
Opened it.
Grabbed an empty suitcase.
Started packing.
Hands shook.
Stuff fell everywhere.
Squatted, picked it up piece by piece, shoved in.
Clothes, shoes, that old photo of Sophie as a kid.
That was it.
Lived here over six months, but my stuff? Just this.
Lifted the suitcase.
To the door.
Hand on the knob.
Paused.
Pushed open.
Out.
Hall long.
Step by step.
Heavy.
Through the hall, down stairs.
Sun streamed in windows, hit me.
Blinding.
Squinted, kept going.
Past living room, dining room, this house I never truly belonged in.
To the front door.
Elsa stood there.
"Mrs. Visconti?" She looked, puzzled. "Heading out?"
"Yeah."
"Need a car?"
"No."
Pushed the door.
Stepped out.
Sun blinding.
Suitcase in hand, I walked.
Over lawn, past fountain, through iron gate.
Guard watched, mouth opened, said nothing.
Out.
Onto the street.
Sun stabbed my eyes.
Kept walking.
One step, two, three.
If I stopped, I might not keep going.
Words echoed in my ears.
"You're just a tool."
"He loves me."
"Your daughter will forget you."
Stomach flipped hard.
Stopped, grabbed a roadside tree.
Threw up.
Bile bitter in my throat, mixed with tears, splattering ground.
Straightened, kept walking.
But the world spun.
Stumbled.
Suitcase dropped.
I went down with it.
Then—
Everything went black.