Chapter 11
The week that followed was a private hell.
I moved through the Ferraro Uomo headquarters like an armored ghost. Work was my opium. I buried my panic and fury in financial projections, hostile takeovers, and board meetings where my voice never wavered.
I was eight months pregnant by the man I had banished from my life, but he wasn’t making it easy.
First, there was the food. The risotto from Savini, which arrived at my office at eight o’clock in the evening. I refused it.
Then, the car waiting at the Villa’s entrance in the morning. I ignored it.
He was trying to buy me off, to soften me with luxury, as if I were one of his second-rate mistresses. The arrogance of it only fueled my anger.
That night, exhaustion got the better of me. It was nine at night. The building was deserted, and the top floor was shrouded in twilight, lit only by the lights of Milan twinkling below.
Every step from my office to the private elevator was agony. The pain in my back was constant, a low-burning fire, and the weight of my son seemed to crush my hips. I was swollen, tired, and fed up… I just wanted my bed.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and my heart skipped a beat. He was there.
Marco was standing in front of the brushed steel doors, blocking my path. He didn’t look like a ghost this time, but like a broken man. His suit was wrinkled, his stubble was darker, and his green eyes… Dio, his eyes were bloodshot and desperate.
A jolt surged through me that chased away my exhaustion.
“Get out of my way, Marco!” My voice came out low and icy.
He didn’t move, just looked at me, his gaze traveling down the taut curve of my stomach and back up to my face.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“You turned down the food.”
“I don’t accept charity.”
“You turned down the car.”
“I don’t need you.”
I tried to walk past him, but he moved, blocking my way. The elevator doors closed, leaving us alone in the dark hallway.
“Stop it, Marco! I’m not in the mood for your games. I’m tired. Get out of my way.”
I tried to push him. It was like pushing against a marble wall.
He grabbed my arm—not with the violence of that day at the penthouse, but with a desperation that was almost worse. His touch was warm and firm. I stiffened. Alarm jolted through me.
My heart—that traitor—began to beat erratically, in a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.
“Bianca, please. Five minutes…”
“I don’t have five seconds for you!” I pulled my arm away, but he didn’t let go.
“Bianca, I made a mistake.”
I stared at him. The stark light from the hallway illuminated the agony on his face.
“I was a proud fool.” He shook his head, his tousled hair falling over his forehead. “I turned to lies because it was easier than believing the truth. I… I believe in you.”
The poison, though—his words—they almost…
“Let me fix this.” Marco squeezed my arm, his green eyes pleading. “Please. Let me…”
My stomach churned. For a second, the exhaustion of my lonely pregnancy almost made me give in. The weak part of me—the part that cried in my mother’s lap—wanted to believe him, but my pride was stronger.
With a violent tug, I broke free from his grip. The movement was so sudden that it made me stumble. I braced myself against the wall to steady myself, placing my hand over my stomach in a protective gesture.
My heart was racing, pounding so hard I could barely breathe. Panic and anger roared in my ears.
“‘Fix it’?” I let out a laugh—a harsh, dry sound that echoed through the empty lobby. “Do you think ‘fixing it’ means sending food I didn’t order? Or a car I don’t need? You can’t fix this, Marco.”
I stared him down, letting all the fury in me show.
“You weren’t a ‘fool.’ You were a coward, and I don’t deal with cowards.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and marched toward the emergency staircase, avoiding him, each step a hammer blow of pain, even as my heart still pounded wildly in my chest, screaming that I was lying.