Chapter 15
I was awake. I can’t say for how long.
The room was bathed in the bluish twilight that precedes dawn in Milan. Only the man beside me disturbed the quiet with his deep, steady breathing.
I was lying on my side, with my back to him, but his arm was draped possessively around my waist, holding me close. The heat of his skin burned against my bare back.
I was in his arms… panicking.
My heart was racing, not from the lingering afterglow of our climax, but from sheer terror that was creeping up my spine.
What had I done?
I could feel my heart racing, pounding so hard in my throat that it was suffocating me. He was still inside me, his weight holding me down, his hot, ragged breath against the skin of my neck.
For one terrible second, one unforgivable second… I felt safe.
I was confused. I hated him and desired him. Both were true, and that duality was tearing me apart inside. I was afraid for myself—afraid of that part of me that had given in, that, in the midst of the chaos, had felt… cared for.
I was lost in that fog of hormones and humiliation when I felt the baby move.
It was a slow, undulating movement, a gentle protest beneath his hand, which was still resting protectively on my belly.
Marco stiffened…
He lifted his head from my neck, his breath caught. His wild green eyes, still dilated with desire, drifted down to his own hand. The baby kicked again, a small jolt that we both felt.
I saw his face fall apart. His hard mask dissolved. What remained was… astonishment. His eyes filled with tears. Dio mio… He was crying.
His hand, which had previously held me tightly, became incredibly gentle. His fingers trembled as he caressed my belly with reverence.
“Dio…” he whispered against my skin.
His tenderness—that direct connection between father and the son he had abandoned—was a more intimate violation than sex.
The ice around my heart began to crack. I hated him. I had to hate him. My pride demanded it. But seeing him broken there, crying over my belly… it shattered all the anger I was desperately trying to fuel.
The confusion was so overwhelming it suffocated me. I couldn’t stay there. It seemed impossible to process this in his arms…
With a strength that came from my last shred of pride, I pushed him away.
“Stop,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
He pulled away, withdrawing from inside me with painful reluctance. Cool air touched my damp skin, and I shivered, clutching the crumpled sheet to cover myself.
“Bianca…”
“No.” I stood up, my legs weak, and didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. “Get dressed.”
“What?”
“Get dressed, Marco. You’re taking me home.”
There was a silence.
“I’m not taking you to the Villa,” he said, his voice low but commanding as he recovered from the shock.
I turned to him, incredulous. “What? You can’t keep me here.”
“I’m not going to send you back to them. Not like this.”
“You have no right to decide!” I shouted. “My brothers…”
“Are your brothers going to kill me?” he cut me off. His voice was terrifyingly calm. Marco got up from the bed, naked, unashamed, and came toward me. “Let them try.”
I stepped back.
“You’re crazy!”
“I am.” He took a step toward me. I backed up until my back hit the wall. Marco stopped a meter away. “Didn’t you understand what I said, Bianca? I’m not going anywhere. If you go to the Villa, I’ll go there and sit at your gate until you come out.”
Unease swept through me. The image of me returning home, leaving Marco Valenti—the man who had rejected me—like a stray dog… I was torn, but I knew there was no way to fight his determination, and… maybe deep down, I didn’t even want to.
“I need to be by his side,” Marco whispered, pointing to my belly. “I won’t make the same mistake. I’ll never run away again.”
The confusion was a lump in my throat. My pride screamed at me to spit in his face, accept the war, and watch my brothers destroy him. But the seven-months-pregnant woman—exhausted, fearful, and confused—just wanted comfort.
I looked at him. The man I hated. The father of my son and, at that moment, my only option.
My anger faded, leaving only an exhaustion that weighed as heavily as lead.
I hadn’t forgiven him; I wasn’t even close to considering forgiving him. However, Marco seemed right, and suddenly, my best option became staying close to him—even though deep down I was terrified I’d regret that choice.
I turned and walked toward the guest room.
“Bianca…” he called.
I stopped at the door, without looking back.
“I just… need a shower,” I whispered, exhaling in exhaustion.
I heard the sound of his shaky breathing, a sigh of relief.
“Sì. All right.”
I closed the door, turned the latch, and, for the first time on enemy territory, allowed myself to breathe.
I pressed my forehead against the cold wood of the door, feeling the lingering traces of the climax and the rush fade, leaving behind a nauseating exhaustion. His scent was all over me—on my skin, in my hair—and it felt deliciously intoxicating.
I still felt like I was on quicksand, but I was less and less afraid of sinking.
I walked mechanically to the private bathroom, a cavern of gray marble, as cold and impersonal as the rest of that apartment. I stepped into the shower and turned the knob all the way up.
The hot water hit my back like needles, but I didn’t flinch. I needed to wash away his scent, his touch, the sensation of his fingers caressing my stomach… and perhaps regain a little control over myself—the control that seemed to slip away like water through my fingers every time Marco was around.
I scrubbed my skin with his expensive soap—with its citrusy, woody scent, so irritatingly masculine—until my skin turned red and raw. But I couldn’t wash away the sensation.
I gave in…
After seven months of iron discipline, I crumbled. It wasn’t just the sex… it was the racing heart, the confusion, the way my pride shattered the moment I saw the tears in his eyes.
I was terrified and fighting with all my strength to keep my facade as a strong woman from crumbling, yet I felt I was failing miserably.
I turned off the water, and silence returned, muffled by the steam. I wrapped myself in a towel that seemed too big. I sat on the edge of the immaculate bed, feeling my wet hair drip onto the silk rug.
My clothes were back home. My documents. My prenatal vitamins…
My chest tightened. I couldn’t call Enzo or Matteo. They’d come here with guns drawn and drag me out of there.
There was only one option…
With unsteady hands, I reached for the phone Marco had left on the nightstand. I dialed the number, feeling my stomach churn.
“Hello?”
“Mamma.”
The voice on the other end of the line froze. I heard a choked breath.
“Bianca? Oh my God! Where are you? Are you okay? Enzo and Matteo said… that you left without saying a word…”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I cut in, trying to sound steady, but I was sure I was failing miserably.
“Where are you? Why aren’t you home?”
I closed my eyes, taking a long, deep breath before answering.
“I’m with Marco…” The admission burned my throat.
My mother’s pause felt heavy. I braced myself for the lecture, for the disappointment… for the “Bianca, how could you?”
“You…” My mother’s voice was tense. “Are you with him? Right now?”
“It’s a strategic decision, Mamma,” I hurried to explain, hating how defensive I sounded. “I can’t go back to the Villa. Not now. The doctor said I need peace and quiet. With Enzo and Matteo ready to declare war, the Villa is the worst place for me. I just need… some time.”
“Some time… with him?”
“Somewhere no one can see me,” I corrected sharply. “I need you to send the driver with my things. My work bag, clothes, my… my medicine.”
I waited, bracing myself for an argument.
Instead, what I heard was… a sigh.
It wasn’t a sigh of anger. It was an unsteady sound, almost… relieved.
“Oh, grazie a Dio.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Tesoro mio…” Her voice sounded calm, and I realized, in shock, that she was… happy. “That’s great!”
“Good?” My voice sounded incredulous. “Mom, are you listening to me? I’m at the home of the man who humiliated me! The man you’re supposed to hate!”
“I heard you, Bianca. And I saw the press conference, too.” Her voice was gentle, full of a wisdom I’d never understood. “A man doesn’t destroy himself like that in front of the whole world unless he has the best of reasons.”
“That was desperation!” I spat.
“Maybe, but you’re right there, and you’re not hiding behind your brothers or drowning yourself in work. For the first time, Bianca, you’re facing the problem. You’re with him.”
I was stunned; I wanted her to say it was a mistake, but instead, she broke down all the defenses I’d been struggling—in vain—to maintain.
“I’ll have your things sent over right away,” she said, suddenly cheerful. “Your clothes, your laptop, your toiletries. Do you need anything else? I can have the chef prepare…”
“No!” I said, too quickly. “No, Mamma. Just my bags. And… tell my brothers I’m okay. Tell them… tell them not to do anything.”
“I’ll take care of them.” She paused. “And Bianca?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve spent your whole life being strong. Let someone—just this once—take care of you… even if it’s him.”
She hung up.
I sat on the bed, holding the phone in my hand.
The turmoil was such a tight knot in my chest that I could barely breathe.
I no longer had my anger to protect me, nor was I at war with Marco anymore.
Deep down, all that remained was the fear of letting myself go and ending up destroyed again; however, with every passing second, I became more and more certain that I was on a path of no return.