Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
VIOLA
Eggs scrambled soft in butter, thick slices of sourdough toasted until the edges turn golden and crisp, a handful of fresh berries, and a generous dollop of Greek yogurt drizzled with honey is what I have in mind. Nothing too fancy. Just real food.
I take my time making my breakfast, the kind I haven’t let myself make in years.
For so long there was never any point. In Salvatore’s house, the staff handled everything, and Salvatore made sure every meal was a performance.
He was the main guy, and I was a decorative ornament on the chair opposite him.
I stopped caring. I ate what was put in front of me, or I didn’t eat at all.
But this morning I’m feeling ravenous. And something else too—quietly excited. My body feels strangely alive. Hungry in more ways than one.
The pan hisses gently when I crack the eggs in.
The smell of melting butter and browning bread fills the kitchen, warm and comforting.
I stir the wooden spoon in slow circles, letting myself enjoy the small, ordinary act of cooking for myself in this beautiful, quiet space that so quickly feels a little less like someone else’s home and more like mine.
When it’s ready, I don’t bother carrying it to the table.
I hop onto the wide marble counter and eat right there with my legs swinging gently.
The first bite of the eggs makes my eyes sting.
God. I nearly cry. I can’t remember the last time a meal tasted like this—like something made with care, something I actually wanted.
Not eaten in silence while someone barked orders into a phone. Just mine.
I eat slowly, savoring every creamy bite of egg, the crispy edges of the toast, the bright sweetness of the berries bursting between my teeth.
Tears blur my vision for a moment, and I blink them back hard, refusing to let them fall.
This is ridiculous. It’s only breakfast. But it feels bigger than that.
It feels more like the first real breath I’ve taken in four years.
After I finish, I stay perched on the counter for a while longer, empty plate next to me, staring out at the glittering city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want to go back to that house and face what it still represents.
So, I procrastinate.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through design ideas—soft throw pillows in deep jewel tones, cozy cashmere blankets, more fresh flowers, simple plates and vases that would warm up the sleek, dark penthouse without changing it too much.
I don’t want to make him uncomfortable in his own home.
I just want to make it feel a little more like somewhere I could finally call my home.
I shop online for a little bit and place a few small orders, biting my lip as I add things to the cart. Nothing crazy. Just gentle touches. When I finally check the time, reality settles back in. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to go back and get my things.
Close that terrible chapter for good.
I take the private elevator down, press the button with the little hat symbol, and the driver is waiting exactly as Ricci said he would be in an idling, gleaming black SUV by the elevator.
He greets me with quiet respect and holds the door open.
I slide into the back seat, and we pull out into the bright afternoon light.
As we leave the city behind, the tall glass buildings give way to familiar winding roads lined with tall cypress trees.
The farther we drive, the heavier the air feels.
Even before the gates appear, I can already sense the coldness waiting for me.
The old estate always carried a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
It seeped into your bones and stayed there.
By now, everyone will have heard. The news spreads fast in our world—faster than blood on a marble floor.
I married the new boss barely five seconds after my husband was put in the ground.
The gossip will be vicious. I can almost hear the whispers already: cold, heartless, calculating bitch.
Jumping from one powerful man to the next, before the last one is even cold.
They’ll say I was waiting for Salvatore to die.
They’ll call me a whore who traded up the moment she could.
I stare out the tinted window and feel… nothing.
No shame. No guilt. I don’t give a damn what they think.
They can talk until their tongues fall out.
The same people who watched Salvatore leave me with nothing, not a single dime, not one asset in my name, didn’t lift a finger to help me.
Not one of them cared when I was trapped.
In fact, they tried to take advantage of me.
So let them judge. Their opinions mean less than the dirt under my shoes.
I feel genuinely relieved to be heading back there for the last time. This trip is about closing the door to that unhappy part of my life for good. Leaving that miserable chapter behind and never looking back.
The familiar wrought-iron gates swing open automatically, heavy and slow, like they always have, and the car turns onto the long driveway.
Hopefully, for the last time in my life, I see the sprawling stone mansion come into view.
The house looks the same—grand, cold, imposing—but it feels different now.
It looks smaller somehow. Or maybe I’m just bigger inside myself.
I step out of the car and walk towards the front door.
The maids are already waiting just inside the grand foyer.
Their faces are carefully neutral, but I catch the glances they exchange.
As if they have been instructed not to leave me alone, silently they follow me upstairs.
They stand just behind the door as I move through the rooms I used to live in and feel almost nothing.
No nostalgia. Just a quiet determination to leave as soon as possible.
I turn towards them. “Only the clothes in the far closet. The jewelry in the little blue box. Leave everything else. You can donate them or sell them. Actually, do whatever you want with them.”
Most of those things carry bad memories anyway—heavy, suffocating ones that cling like leeches. I want as little of the past as possible to touch my new life.
After I give them their instructions, I walk outside into the afternoon light toward the stables.
My eyes find Bella immediately in the paddock.
My chest tightens, a sharp little ache that I wasn’t ready for.
This is the only part that really hurts.
I head over to her, and run my hand slowly along her sleek neck, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of horse, hay, and open fields.
She nudges my shoulder gently, as if she knows how sad I am to leave her.
I decide I need one more ride. Just one.
Just the two of us. A few precious minutes together. Like old times.
I saddle her quickly, swing up, and let her have her fly.
The sun warms my face, the air rushes into my lungs clean and sharp.
Together we go across the rolling fields.
The wind whips my hair back hard, and the powerful rhythm of her hooves thunder beneath me.
Suddenly, I feel free, wild, and more alive than I’ve ever felt.
I made my escape. I really did it. I laugh out loud, and the sound is instantly carried away by the wind.
For a little while, my worries and fears lift, and I’m just Viola on a horse, nothing more.
Refreshed and recharged, I finally turn her back toward the stables, and my stomach drops like a stone. There, waiting near the entrance with his arms crossed and an ugly smirk on his face is the last person I ever wanted to see.
Mario.
Fuck him. There is nothing he can do to me now.
I slide off Bella’s back, my legs still tingling from the ride.
My hands linger on her warm neck, stroking the smooth, glossy coat one last time.
The familiar scent of horse and sun-warmed leather fills my nose.
I lean my forehead against her for a moment, whispering a soft goodbye that catches in my throat.
My voice comes out thick, almost breaking.
This is the hardest part. The only part that hurts.
She nudges me gently with her muzzle, as if she understands, and my chest squeezes tight.
I pat her one final time, fingers tracing the white star on her forehead as I memorize the feel of her.
Before I turn away, I hear Mario’s heavy footsteps heading toward me. He steps directly into my path, blocking the way to the stable door. His shadow falls over me, tall and looming. The air between us instantly turns colder, heavier.
His eyes drag over my body with that same sick, possessive hunger I’ve felt for years. It makes my skin crawl.
“So,” he drawls, voice dripping with mockery, “did the pretender promise to build you a fancy new stable and get you better horses? Is that why you married him so fast?” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Or is it because his cock is bigger and better than my father’s? I’ve always been curious.”
Shock freezes me in place for a long second. How dare he speak to me like this. I can’t speak. Can’t even form a single word. He’s vile and too disgusting, too filthy to answer. Pure revulsion washes over me. I stare at him, lips pressed tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
When I stay silent, his smirk fades, and his face twists with fury, eyes darkening, and his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek.
“You’ve humiliated my father,” he spits venomously, “by being such a whore. Jumping into bed with his second-in-command. Poor man, he’ll turn in his grave at your betrayal.”
The poison in his tone makes my skin prickle.
I feel the old familiar fear rise, the fear that used to crawl up my spine whenever he looked at me with his desire.
Not fear of him, but fear that Salvatore will see and punish me for it.
But Salvatore is dead. I don’t have to stand here and take this anymore.
I don’t belong to this house. I don’t belong to him. Not anymore.
Sharp anger fills my chest. And it is a good feeling. Exhilarating.
Mario takes another step closer, his breath hot and sour. “Answer me, you gold-digging little bitch.”
Still, I don’t answer. The words hang in the air between us, ugly and sharp in the tense silence that stretches between us. My heart is pounding hard against my ribs.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he sneers, his voice low and malicious, stepping so close that I can smell the sour whiskey on his breath.
For a long moment I just look at him — really look. At the twisted but impotent fury on his face. His hands are twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself back. Something shifts inside me. A quiet, clear decision.
I don’t have to endure this anymore.
I don’t owe him a single word. I don’t owe him my time, my fear, or my silence. Not today. Not ever again. Without saying anything, I turn to leave.
His hand shoots out fast — too fast to evade— and grabs my upper arm. His fingers dig in hard, viciously tight, squeezing until the pain flares hot and sharp up my arm. I know he’s going to leave bruises. The kind that blooms into deep purple and lingers for days.
I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, the sting radiating outward, but I don’t cry out. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. I don’t think about my next action. I just react. My knee comes up hard and fast, and slams straight into his groin with every bit of strength I have.
The impact is so strong it makes my body jerk. Mario doubles over instantly with a strangled, guttural grunt. His face is twisted in agony: eyes bulging, mouth opening in a silent gasp as both hands fly down to clutch himself. The color drains from his face, then floods back red and furious.
For one heartbeat I stand there, breathing hard, staring at him with a wild satisfaction as he hunches forward, wheezing.
Then I run.
I don’t look back. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, loud in my ears, adrenaline flooding hot through my veins. My feet pound against the gravel as I sprint toward the waiting black SUV. The bodyguard is already moving, stepping forward protectively, but I don’t slow down.
“Quick. Drive,” I gasp breathlessly the second I reach the car. I yank the back door open and throw myself inside. “Now. Back to the apartment. You can come back later to pick up my things. I already told the maids what to pack.”
Ricci’s driver is experienced. He understands an emergency when he sees one.
No questions, no hesitation. The engine roars to life and the car peels away from the estate.
Through the rear window I catch a glimpse of Mario stumbling out of the house, red-faced and furious, both hands still clutched between his legs as he searches wildly for me.
I sink back against the cool leather seat, chest heaving. My arm throbs where his fingers dug in. I press my hand over the spot. I can already feel the tender bruise forming beneath my sleeve.
Tears roll down my cheeks before I can stop them — hot, silent, sliding fast over my skin. They’re not from pain. They’re from relief. Sheer, overwhelming relief. I have just escaped hell. Real, suffocating, soul-crushing hell. And I couldn’t be more grateful to Ricci for giving me the way out.
I wipe at the tears angrily with the back of my hand, but more fall anyway.
Suddenly I miss him. Deeply. The feeling hits me so hard it steals away my breath.
I want to see him right now. I want to feel those careful, gentle hands on me again.
I want to hear his low, steady voice saying my name like I matter.
For the first time in my life, I matter to someone.
I don’t know when I will see him again, and the thought makes my chest ache with longing.
The car gets out of the gates without any trouble and speeds toward the city. The estate shrinks in the distance behind us. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the smooth motion of the SUV rock me, carrying me back to the only place that feels like it might become home.
Back to him.