Chapter 9
My whole body was trembling.
I sagged against the windowpane, unable to move. The climax had been so fierce it seemed to tear my soul free. The sound of my own scream still echoed in my ears, mingled with his muffled roar.
The aftershocks of climax pulsed deep within my womb, a wave of heat that refused to fade. My heart was racing, pounding so hard against my ribs that it hurt. He was still inside me, his crushing weight holding me down and his hot, ragged breath against the skin of my neck.
For one terrible second, one unforgivable second… I felt safe.
Then reality hit me.
The glass chilled my cheek as the room went still, leaving me aware of the throbbing bite on my lip.
What had I done?
The man who destroyed me, who humiliated me, who abandoned me while I was pregnant, had just taken me against the window of his penthouse as if I were his property—and I had let him. Worse, my treacherous instincts had begged for it.
Pleasure’s afterglow vanished beneath a wave of disgust and fury. The humiliation ran deeper than what I’d felt at the altar.
“Bianca…” he murmured in a hoarse voice, still buried inside me, trying to kiss me.
That was all it took.
“NO!” My scream was raw and guttural.
With a force that came born of humiliation, I planted both hands against his sweaty chest, and I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward, caught off guard, sliding out of me as nausea rose in my throat. The room’s cool air hit my damp skin, and I shivered violently.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed, stumbling away from him, grabbing the tattered remnants of my blazer on the floor to try to cover my nakedness and my exposed pregnant belly.
He looked at me, and I saw the desire in his green eyes give way to painful confusion.
Marco’s semen was running down my thigh. I felt dirty, violated, and used.
“Bianca, what—”
“This means nothing!” My voice tore through the air, hysterical. I pointed an unsteady finger at him. “Did you hear me? You’re forcing yourself on me, you… this… doesn’t change anything! It doesn’t erase the Duomo! It means nothing!”
I was gasping for breath and couldn’t hold back the tears of pure rage streaming hot down my face.
Marco stood still, catching his breath. He didn’t try to cover himself. He stared at me, and then a slow, cruel, and terribly sad smile curved his lips.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m going to call the police, Marco…”
“You screamed ‘I hate you,’ but you were coming,” he cut me off, in a low but terribly cruel voice. His expression hardened to steel. “You don’t scream like that for ‘nothing.’”
He took a step toward me. I backed away, my back slamming against the opposite wall.
“You can lie to yourself, Bianca. You can yell at me. You can throw more crystal.” He pointed at my chest, where my heart was beating visibly beneath my skin.
“But what happened here…” He paused, those wild green eyes piercing me, reading every lie I was trying to construct. “To you, it means everything.”
The audacity, the arrogance, and the absolute truth of those words struck harder than any physical blow.
Yes… Damn it, yes! Deep down, in that dark, terrified place I’d never admit to, it was true. I felt an intense, terrible mix of emotions for him. The desperate relief of having him back and the excruciating pain of having lost him… I felt it all.
But my pride was a wall of steel, and it seemed to be all I had left.
I couldn’t forgive him. I wouldn’t give in after the terrible public humiliation he’d put me through… To forgive would be to admit that he’d won.
Rage returned and froze my tears.
I straightened my back. I pulled my blazer tight around myself, covering my stomach like a shield.
“Are you done with your show?” My voice was icy, unrecognizable.
He looked at me, surprised by the sudden change.
“It’s over, Marco. You’ve proven your point. You’re an animal. Congratulations!” I spat out the words. “Now, I demand that you take me home.”
“Bianca, we’re not going to…”
“NOW!” My scream echoed off the glass. “Or I swear to God, Marco, I’ll jump out this window right now and take all three of us to hell.”
It was obvious I wouldn’t do that, but I needed him to fear such a desperate act so he’d leave me alone.
He stared at me, and the terror in his eyes was real. He saw the insane truth of my promise.
Marco stopped struggling. All the fight left him, his broad shoulders slumped. He was, at last, defeated, so he slowly nodded.
I throbbed, no longer with pleasure, but with the bitter aftertaste of something that should never have happened. The baby stirred beneath my skin, a slight movement, almost a silent protest, and guilt hit me hard.
Tears welled up, hot, and I hated them for it. They weren’t tears of pain; they were tears of rage at giving in, at letting him touch me again, at feeling—even for a second—the same fire that had destroyed me months ago.
I looked at him, and it felt as if all the air had vanished.
“Let’s go.” That was all I said.
We stepped into the elevator in silence.
The air in there was heavy, saturated with what we’d done, with the mingled scent of sex and resentment.
Every second dragged on, and the sound of the motor as we descended was like a funeral dirge.
I kept my eyes fixed on the metallic reflection of the door, my expression impassive, my stomach covered, and my spine straight by sheer force of will. Inside, I was falling apart; outwardly, I held the posture of an unshakable woman.
He guided me to the black Mercedes he’d used to kidnap me, as if that car were the only possible link between us. He opened the passenger door and waited. I got in without looking at him.
The engine started, its low rumble filling the suffocating quiet.
The city flashed by in blurs of lights and storefronts, but all I could see was the fogged-up window.
My heart was slowing down, beating heavily and painfully.
“Bianca…” His voice reached for me.
I closed my eyes. The sound was wrong—too soft for the damage he’d caused.
“No!” I cut him off, curtly.
“Please, just… I know what I did… what we did…” He swallowed the rest. “I’m so sorry.”
His words hit me like a slap in the face.
I turned my face away, and the venom that kept me standing took shape.
“You’re sorry?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Is that how you see it? That an apology and a few hours of regret are enough?”
He fell silent.
“You left me at the altar, Marco.” The words came out sharp. “You made a joke out of my name, disappeared for six months, kidnapped me from my office, forced me to relive every scar…” I took a deep breath. “And now you want to patch everything up with sex and guilt?”
I saw his face tense, as if I’d thrust a blade under his skin.
“It wasn’t an attack, Bianca… you… you were…”
“I was what?” I interrupted, turning to face him. “Did I give in? Did I reciprocate? You cornered me like prey, Marco. What did you expect? That I’d thank you?”
“I… I didn’t…” he stammered, and for the first time I saw him without his mask. A man stripped of control, of arguments, and of excuses.
I crossed my arms over my stomach, as if shielding myself from a storm.
“I don’t want your regret. Or your words.” My voice wavered despite my contained anger. “I just want distance.”
I turned my face toward the window, and the lights of Milan became a blur of gold and shadows.
The whole world seemed to spin. The fight drained out of me, leaving only exhaustion.
My treacherous instincts recognized the touch of his hot, ragged breath instantly.
“You don’t understand, do you?” I said, my voice low and dangerous, regaining control. “Do you think I’m one of your mistresses whom you can buy with jewelry or intimidate in bed? I’m not a business you can force into a merger. This isn’t a game you win by taking me to bed.”
I turned back toward the window, seeing the familiar lights of the neighborhood where I grew up. The massive gates of Villa Ferraro were coming into view in the darkness. My home…
The car slowed down as it rolled over the gravel of the main driveway.
“You can’t fix this, Marco,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “What you’ve broken is broken forever.”
He stopped the Mercedes in front of the grand marble staircase. The engine died, and the stillness inside became heavier than it had been in the elevator. The air inside the car was stale, heavy with the scent of our sex and my anger.
“Bianca…” he tried, in a tone of desperation I’d never heard before. “Don’t do this! Don’t push me away… it’s our son.”
A final shock left me numb. I turned to face him one last time. The dim light from the dashboard illuminated the exhaustion on his face and the dried blood on his mouth. The fury was gone, leaving only the finality of my decision.
“You’re wrong. He’s my son,” I said, determined. “You lost the right to call him ‘ours’ the second you left me at that altar.”
I didn’t wait for him to open the door for me. My hand, unsteady with anger and exhaustion, pressed the unlock button. I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air.
“Stay away from me,” I ordered, without looking back. “And from my family—and especially from my son.”
I slammed the car door shut, a dull thud that echoed through Villa Ferraro’s dark courtyard.
I climbed the marble steps of the house, and His gaze followed me, burning into my back. I didn’t falter. I left him alone in the darkness of the courtyard, with nothing but the echo of my words and the ruin he himself had created.
The massive door of Villa Ferraro closed behind me, its dull thud echoing through the dark entrance hall. The surrounding opulence seemed to mock me. The house of my childhood, my first empire, looked like a mausoleum.
I climbed the grand staircase, running my hand along the polished oak banister. The silk of my torn dress, still beneath my blazer, seemed to cling to my skin—tainted by his scent: a mixture of expensive cologne, whiskey, and the metallic, primal odor of sex and rage.
I shook with a deep tremor that seemed lodged in my bones. The fight, the kidnapping, the… thing in the penthouse… receded, leaving only panic.
I reached my suite and opened the door. The room was as it always was: impeccable, cold, shrouded in twilight. The faint scent of lilies and polished furniture, in a sanctuary of control.
I turned the key in the lock. The metallic click was the sound of my armor shattering.
For a second, I stood motionless, with my back to the door. Then I saw my reflection in the large Venetian mirror.
The woman staring back at me was a stranger. My hair, which I always kept in a strict bun, was wild, loose, tangled by his fingers. My lips were swollen, red, bruised from the punishing kiss. The expensive blazer was torn at the lining, hanging pathetically over my crumpled dress.
His scent was all over me.
“NO!” I let out a low, animalistic growl.
I ripped off the blazer and hurled it against the wall. It fell to the floor like discarded skin.
I shook, breathing in short, painful gasps.
“I hate him… I hate him…”
My hands went to the zipper on my dress, but my fingers were numb, useless. The rage was so intense it blinded me. I grabbed the fabric at my shoulder and yanked. The sound of the expensive silk tearing was sharp and violent.
I felt dirty, used, and humiliated.
And you gave in.
The voice in my head cut deep. You let him. You responded. You came…
“SHUT UP!” I screamed into the empty room.
Regret hit me like a punch.
I, who had judged my brothers for their chaotic passions, had crumbled in the hands of the man who destroyed me, proving that I was exactly like them.
I saw the vase of lilies on my dressing table, the same white lilies from my failed marriage.
With a roar of pure rage, I swept the arrangement aside. The Baccarat crystal vase flew through the air, striking the Venetian mirror.
The explosion of glass and water was deafening. Shards rained down onto the Persian rug.
But it wasn’t enough. The rage was still there, suffocating me and burning my throat.
I fell to my knees on the floor.
He touched me, kissed me… and I cried.
These were not quiet tears. It was an ugly, wrenching cry that tore at my throat. They were sobs of such deep humiliation that they seemed endless.
I screamed.
Rage at his return collided with terror that Marco knew about the baby—and with absolute hatred of myself because, in the midst of it all, my treacherous instincts had remembered him.
A dry, painful sob tore through my throat.
I covered my face with shaking hands and surrendered to the sobs.
I was so lost in my own agony that I barely heard the knocking at the door.
“Bianca! What was that noise? Open the door!”
It was my mother’s voice, filled with panic.
“GO AWAY!” I screamed, my voice muffled by my sobs.
“Bianca, I’m not going anywhere! What’s going on? Enzo and Matteo said that…”
I heard a key turning in the lock. The master key to the villa…
The door swung open.
My mother stopped at the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob. Her eyes scanned the scene in horror. The shattered vase, the water and dead lilies on the rug, and the Venetian mirror in a thousand pieces—and… finally, her eyes rested on me.
Her daughter on her knees on the floor, half-naked, her dress torn, crying as if the world were ending.
She said nothing. There was no “I told you so” or any judgment; my mother simply closed the door behind her, locking the rest of the world out.
Within seconds, she was on the floor with me. Her arms—always so elegant and adorned with understated jewelry—wrapped around me, pulling me against her chest in an embrace that didn’t care about the dirty silk or my sweat.
Her scent—gardenias and something maternal I hadn’t felt in years—hit me, and that broke me completely.
“Mamma…” The sob tore through my throat.
“Shhh, bambina mia. Shhh.” She cradled me in her arms, rocking me gently, just as she used to when I was a child and had nightmares. “I’m here…”
“I hate him!” I cried, muffling my voice against the soft cashmere of her sweater. “I hate him so much…”
“I know, my love. I know.”
“He… he humiliated me… and I…” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t admit the most shameful part.
She wiped a tear from my cheek with her thumb.
I shook my head; a sob broke through my denial.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She pulled me closer, holding me tighter. “You can hate him. You can scream. You can cry. Here, with me, you can be whatever you want.”
She didn’t try to “fix” me, nor did she give me a plan of action or call me a fool.
She just held me, and there, on the floor of my wrecked bedroom, in my mother’s arms, the impenetrable Bianca Ferraro finally allowed herself to fall apart.