CHAPTER 12
ROXANNE
He hadn’t slept much.
I could tell by the way his body stayed tense beside mine. By how his hand stayed on me longer than necessary. Like he hadn’t decided whether to let go.
It wasn’t about the sex. Not entirely. Something in him felt… unsettled. Not distant—but alert. Watchful. As if he was trying to place me. Or himself with me.
He watched me now with quiet intent. Not the way a man looks at a guest or even a lover. But like I’d crossed some invisible line into territory he hadn’t planned to give away.
His gaze followed me in silence, taking me in. The mess of me, the hold-and-release, the way I didn’t soften, didn’t apologise to make him comfortable.
And I could feel it—the tension under his skin. Like something old had been stirred awake.
He didn’t say a word. But the way he stayed close, the way his body angled towards mine, told me enough. Whatever I’d stirred in him, it wasn’t done with me.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
His thumb brushed my throat. I glanced up at him, slowly.
“Should I not be?” I said lightly. “You seemed insistent last night.”
The corner of his mouth twitched with something sharper.
“If I’d hurt you—”
“You didn’t,” I cut in, tilting my head, inspecting him like I wasn’t sure whether to behave or provoke. Then, softer:
“If I say no…” I leaned closer, letting my breath ghost his jaw. “…would that stop you?”
His jaw locked, his thumb returned to my throat, tracing slow circles.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Then, lower. “But it wouldn’t stop me from wanting to.”
Heat pooled fast and unforgiving. I’d meant to tease.
I hadn’t meant to feel that exposed. He dropped his hand like it burned and stepped away first, schooling his expression back into stone.
The distance was deliberate. Necessary. And suddenly, I understood—it wasn’t the sex that had unsettled him. It was me not flinching.
That morning, he took me to the Vatican.
He didn’t speak much, but he held me close—guiding me through the crowds like I was something precious.
As he stood beneath the grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica, making the sign of the cross with reverence, I watched him.
I hadn’t expected him to be religious. But he was Catholic—quietly devout, believing in praying.
I leaned in and kissed his cheek, and he stiffened just for a fraction, before his body softened against mine. And something inside me stilled.
We caught a glimpse of the Pope from afar—a thrill that lit up my face. I pointed out places from the movie Angels and Demons, my voice animated, eyes sparkling.
Marcello smiled and guided me through the Sistine Chapel, explaining the frescoes, the symbolism, the silence. I listened intently, my hand in his, looking at him like he was something sacred.
Later, we stopped at a tiny trattoria tucked into a cobbled alley.
We shared a plate of pasta and two scoops of gelato—hazelnut and pistachio.
I dragged my tongue slowly across the cool creaminess of the gelato.
His eyes locked on my mouth like he wanted to fuck it.
My body lit up with anticipation of thinking just that.
I still didn’t know what he tasted like.
I licked again, letting the cold drip onto my lip, then caught it with my tongue. His jaw clenched. His gaze darkened. The one that said: behave, or I’ll ruin you.
“What?” I teased.
Marcello leaned in, and dragged a thumb across my lips, wiping the gelato, then let his tongue linger on his thumb—like he was tasting ownership.
I knew that look now. The one that made my knees weak and my pulse race.
But I also knew how quickly it could vanish.
How easily desire could masquerade as care.
“Keep teasing me,” he growled, “and I’ll bend you over this table and fuck you till you forget your name.”
My pulse spiked, my thighs clenched reflexively, and I knew my composure was already gone. My whole body tingled. My breath hitched. I got up, looked at him over my shoulder, licked slowly, then ran off with a shriek.
It was fun. Playful. Flirtation laced with fire. Even as we laughed and chased, part of me shivered—small, exposed, yet craving the danger of his touch. He chased after me, pulled me into an empty alley, and kissed me.
“Umm… this flavour tastes better. Gimme another bite,” he teased.
I bit into the cone, then met his lips, letting him taste me and the gelato. His hand lingered, brushing over curves I barely knew were mine, making me ache in ways both thrilling and frightening. Slowly, it slid from my thighs to the lace of my panties.
“How about a taste of this too?”
His fingers slid past the lace, found me soaked. He pushed in slowly, knuckle-deep—then pulled out and sucked it clean.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “Want more.”
I nearly collapsed. My panties were ruined. My thighs slick, but I didn’t care. I flushed crimson—breath caught. He kissed my neck, then pulled me out of the alley.
“Your throat,” he said, voice rough but controlled.
“You took it well.”
I smiled, slow and knowing.
“You didn’t seem gentle enough for me to pretend otherwise.”
His hand stilled at my lower back. Not softer. Not gentler. Just more deliberate.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re learning what you provoke.”
I bit my lip and wished he’d take me there—in that alley—without a care for who might see. As we walked back, he turned to me.
“There’s an auction tonight, just outside Rome. I’d like for you to come.”
“I don’t have anything fancy to wear,” I said. “Plus, I’ve never been to one.”
Marcello just smiled. “It’s taken care of.”
I blinked. “You’re serious?”
“I always am,” he said with a wink.
After my shower, I found the dress laid out on the bed.
It was a deep emerald green silk gown, tailored to skim my curves without clinging.
The bodice was structured, with a subtle sweetheart neckline that elegantly framed my bust. A high slit on the left thigh added drama, revealing glimpses of skin as I walked.
The waist was gently ruched to soften my pooch, and the fabric flowed like water.
I stared at it, stunned. It was perfect. I felt beautiful in it. Wanted. Seen. And I was in awe of his choice—how he’d gotten my size exactly right. And somehow, he made me feel like it was all worth dressing up. Like I was worth being seen.
I pinned one side of my dark hair back with a jewelled clip, letting the rest cascade over my shoulder in soft waves.
My makeup was minimal—just enough to accentuate my features.
A hint of kohl and eyeliner framed my eyes, and my lips wore a deep pink, somewhere between rose and berry. Natural, yet striking.
Marcello entered, dressed in a black suit that fit him like a second skin. A crisp white shirt, a bow tie, and slicked-back peppered hair made him look devastatingly sharp. He paused, eyes sweeping over me.
“You look ravishing,” he said.
I smiled as he stepped closer, studying my reflection in the mirror.
“You’re missing something.”
Before I could ask, he fastened a necklace around my neck—a delicate white gold chain holding a single teardrop diamond that shimmered like moonlight, cold against my skin.
I touched it, stunned.
“I can’t wear this. It looks expensive.”
He didn’t blink.
“Think of it as borrowed,” he said. “But it’ll remember your throat. Even if you give it back.”
His fingers lingered, just below the clasp, just above my pulse. I swallowed hard. It wasn’t just a necklace. It was a leash. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be led or claimed.
He knelt before me, his hands slid up my calves, slowly, as he helped me into my heels, kissing my thigh just above my knee. His breath was warm and his gaze, consuming. My body responded faster than I could breathe. A small moan escaped my throat.
“It’s dangerous when you make sounds like that,” he murmured.
He rose, eyes sweeping over me like he was memorising every inch. Then, casually, like it was nothing, like I was his—
“Let’s go show you off.”
I followed him into the glittering world of the auction, pulse still racing.
The room sparkled with glamour. Women looked like models—tall, polished, impossibly elegant.
I felt underdressed, tiny, exposed, like I’d wandered into a world that wasn’t meant for me—every polished heel, every glittering glance, a reminder that I didn’t belong.
“Everyone’s staring,” I whispered.
“If my eyes are on you, don’t worry about the eyes on me,” he reassured.
“They’re staring because they want what I have. But they’ll never touch it. You’re mine tonight, and I want them to know it.”
One woman deliberately bumped my shoulder, cheekily apologised, then looked me up and down—and then at Marcello, as if silently asking: What is she doing with you?
Her smile was fake. Her eyes, sharp. I felt a jolt of heat and shame invisibly pressing against my chest. I wanted to disappear, or scream—maybe both.
I wasn’t used to being the woman who didn’t belong. But tonight, I felt it in every glance, every whisper, every polished heel that clicked past me like I was invisible.
I took a deep breath, looped my arm through Marcello’s, and held it tighter.
He leaned in.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t let you fall.”
We took our champagne glasses and settled into our seats. As we browsed through the catalogue, a particular necklace caught my attention—an emerald one, simple but beautiful, the exact shade of Marcello’s eyes.
A slender chain of platinum held a single oval emerald, surrounded by tiny diamonds like stars around a moon. I shut the catalogue as soon as I saw the starting bid.
It reminded me of him. That exact shade. That impossible green. But I didn’t want to want it. Not if it meant fighting for his attention. But Marcello noticed and smiled.
When the necklace came up, the bidding began at €100,000. Marcello raised his paddle. The same woman who bumped me joined in, throwing me a dirty look and winking at Marcello.
“Hundred and fifty thousand,” the auctioneer called. “Do I hear two hundred?” “Three hundred.” “Four hundred.”
Marcello didn’t flinch. He raised his paddle again.
“Five hundred thousand,” the auctioneer called. “Do I hear six hundred?”—looking in her direction.
She raised her paddle. Marcello was about to raise his paddle, but I gently tugged on his arm.
“Stop. It isn’t worth the fight.”
He smiled, took out his phone, and typed something quickly.
The auctioneer spoke, “Going once, going twice. Sold to the lovely lady for six hundred thousand euros.”
Everyone gasped and clapped. She turned around and gave me a cunning look. Marcello went on to win a few more items—paintings, sculptures, and rare artefacts.
I excused myself to go freshen up. As Marcello stepped away to collect his winnings, the same woman approached him.
She was tall, slim, and wore an ochre-coloured fitted dress with a plunging neckline. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves; her hips swayed with every step. She was sensual, flirtatious, and knew it. She gently took Marcello’s arm and purred something to him.
I was walking back when I saw them—too close, too familiar.
She pressed her tits against his chest, whispered something I couldn’t hear, then kissed him slowly.
And he let her. My stomach twisted. I felt the heat rise in my chest—rage, shame, something feral.
I wanted to rip that necklace off my neck and hurl it across the room.
But I didn’t. I smiled like a good girl. Like a woman who knew her place.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said with a wink.
I froze. A wave of jealousy crashed over me. And Marcello had done nothing to stop her. Not a word. Just silence.
I had never felt so out of place. He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at me. And that silence screamed louder than any insult—felt louder than any slap.
In the car, I was quiet.
Then, softly: “I need to leave,” I said, voice tight.
“Tomorrow. Alone.”
I didn’t want to beg. But I also didn’t want to stay and watch him pretend I didn’t exist—like I was a secret he was ashamed of.
He looked at me, surprised.
“Fine,” he replied coldly.
“I’d like to stay at the resort I reserved.”
Marcello just nodded, eyes never meeting mine, fingers moving over his phone—his distance slicing into me sharper than any words. I felt hollow, like the air had been sucked from my chest. Every ache and longing I’d held in secret seemed to mock me. And just like that, something inside me cracked.
I felt stupid. Na?ve. Like I’d imagined everything. I had thought I felt something. And maybe—just maybe—he felt something too.
But the universe hadn’t been kind lately. And it was foolish to believe this thing with him—whatever it was—could be anything real.
I remembered what he’d said: “You’re here for a few days.”
But then he’d worshipped me right after.
It didn’t make sense. He could make me feel like the only woman in the world in private—make me believe I was the centre of his gaze like I was sacred.
Like I was his. Yet in front of that smug, skinny bitch, he said nothing.
He left me invisible. And that hurt more than I was prepared for.
He dropped me off at the palazzo and told me not to wait up, that he had some ‘business’ to attend to. I didn’t ask what kind. I didn’t want to know.
That night, I didn’t really sleep. I placed the diamond necklace on the dresser, beside a note that read:
I wanted to leave something behind. Something that said:
I was here. I mattered. Even if only for a moment.
Marcello had arranged a private jet for me to fly to Sicily.
I stared at the itinerary, confused. If he was being distant… why the gesture? Why the jet? It only deepened the ache.
He was everywhere. In the scent of my skin. In the ache between my legs. In the silence I carried. In the taste of my own moans. In the sheets I’d soaked with wanting.
And yet, he was nowhere. Just a ghost with hands. A contradiction I couldn’t hold in my hands.
As I boarded the plane the next morning, I looked out at Rome one last time. I didn’t know what awaited me in Sicily.
But one thing was certain—I needed distance from him. From whatever this was. From the version of myself that kept hoping for more.
I pressed my palms to my thighs, feeling the echo of his hands, the ache of him still curling inside me.
The plane lifted, carrying me away—but I carried him in every pulse.