CHAPTER 13
MARCELLO
I didn’t expect the quiet to feel this loud, like punishment.
Like she’d taken the air with her and I’d been left behind in a room full of ghosts.
It felt like she’d ripped something out of me and left the wound open.
Like I’d been gutted and didn’t even know it until the silence started screaming.
The kind of silence that makes a man check his own pulse just to be sure he’s still alive.
I’d told myself she was temporary. Just a detour. But something about her had settled under my skin. Like water finding cracks in stone.
I hadn’t realised how much space she’d taken up until she was gone. It wasn’t loud, it was invasive. Like breath in my lungs, I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Our trip to the Vatican kept replayed in my mind. The way she looked at me with curiosity. With something softer as if she saw the fracture in me and leaned closer.
No one does that. Most people look away when they see the broken parts. Not without wanting something in return. But she didn’t want anything. And I didn’t know how to be held without being used.
She held my gaze like she wasn’t afraid of what she’d find beneath the polish—like she wasn’t afraid of the sinner behind the suit.
I remember her voice lighting up, recognising places, eyes sparkling as she pointed out landmarks she’d only read about or seen in films.
I watched her—not the frescoes, not the grandeur. Her. Her hand in mine. Her awe. Her licking that gelato like she knew exactly what it did to me. Like she wanted me to snap. And I almost did.
I wanted to drag her into the alley and fuck her against the wall.
But I didn’t. Because if I started, I wouldn’t have stopped.
Not in that alley. Not in the daylight. Not even if Rome burned around us.
And I wanted her to think I was better than that, even when I wasn’t.
Even when all I wanted was to pin her down and fuck the defiance out of her.
To make her moan my name with her mouth pressed to brick.
I thought about how I held her the night before—how my hands had gripped her throat, how every inch of her had been mine to claim, how she’d trembled under my touch and still begged for more.
Possession had never felt so urgent, so undeniable, so impossible to reconcile with the man I pretended to be now.
Later, I asked her to accompany me to the auction. I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could. I didn’t know why, but I just wanted her close. She brought out a calm in me—maybe even more than Elaine ever had.
Elaine had been elegance. Roxanne was gravity. And I was already falling, but I feared it. I knew this would end soon. She was here for a vacation. And yes—I wanted to leave as much of an impact on her as she’d left on me.
I couldn’t hold her back, though I wanted to. I didn’t know what she wanted—or who she really was, or what her life looked like beyond this.
I also hadn’t been sure the dress would fit. I hadn’t been sure I deserved to see her in it. I just wanted her to feel beautiful.
To feel like someone had looked at her and said: Yes, you. You’re worth it.
I asked one of the maids to discreetly check her closet, take a reference. I didn’t want to guess. I wanted her to feel chosen. Not just dressed up. Desired. Not just tolerated.
And when she stepped out—hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes lined with kohl, lips the colour of crushed berries—I felt something tighten in my chest. An unexplainable pull. Not desire—hunger. The kind that scares a man who’s used to being the one devoured.
At the auction, I saw her discomfort. The way she scanned the room, measuring herself against the women in couture. I wanted her to feel beautiful just the way she looked. But I saw the tension in her shoulders. The way she held my arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Then, she appeared—Isabella. Tall. Slim.
Dressed in silk that clung to her curves.
I recognised her instantly. We’d had a short affair once.
A month, maybe. Then I found out she was Lorenzo’s muse—close to me, only to pass on business intel.
I cut ties with her and never called her again.
I knew what kind of woman she was and the time would come for my payback.
But she remembered me. She looked at Roxanne like she was a stain on my image. Like she didn’t belong. Like she was nothing.
And I hated that I didn’t know how to protect her from it. Not with words. Not with presence. Roxanne shrank by an inch.
Isabella made women do that—shrink. And Roxanne didn’t deserve to shrink for anyone.
And I just stood there. A coward in a suit, frozen while she felt undermined under another woman’s gaze. I hated it. Hated that I let her feel she didn’t belong. I did nothing. I didn’t know how to fight for softness in a room designed for wolves.
I wanted Roxanne to feel seen. To know that when I looked at her, it was with admiration. With something deeper than lust. I wanted the world to see it too. But I didn’t know how to show it. Not when I’d spent years hiding softness behind steel.
When I noticed her lingering on the emerald necklace in the catalogue, something overcame me. I decided in that moment—I wanted to gift it to her. So, I waited.
Then Isabella started bidding and ego took over. I raked up the price. Two hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred.
I stopped only after Roxanne tugged on my arm, telling me it wasn’t worth the fight.
She was right. But I wasn’t done. It wasn’t about the necklace anymore. It was about pride.
But pride is a filthy thing. It whispers louder than reason, louder than the woman you’re trying not to lose.
Every bid, every counter—it wasn’t about money.
It was a demonstration of control. The same control I’d shown Roxanne in private, the way I’d held her, marked her.
Only this time, it was a battle for her attention, not her body but the ache was the same.
It was about proving something, to her, to myself.
That I could give her more than silence.
I typed a message to Isabella
When Roxanne excused herself, I went to pay and collect my other winnings. Isabella approached, hips swaying, eyes gleaming.
“Marcello,” she purred, tracing her fingers along my chest.
“Still breaking hearts just to watch them crumble?”
“Not tonight.”
I asked for the necklace.
She smiled. “Dinner first. Then transactions.”
She spoke about Paris. About how I never called. About unfinished business. I barely responded. Before leaving, she leaned in and kissed my cheek. I didn’t expect it.
And then I saw Roxanne walking towards us, her face pale. I prayed she hadn’t seen it. The kiss. The hand. The way I didn’t push her away. But I knew that look in Roxanne’s eyes. She’d seen everything. And I’d let her down. Again.
I led her to the car, sitting in silence in the back of the limo. Then she spoke, softly, almost guarded, asking if she could leave for Sicily. It caught me off guard.
My phone buzzed, and I simply replied, Fine. Isabella had sent the location for the rendezvous. I nodded distractedly at Roxanne’s question while reading, only realising what I’d just agreed to when it was already too late.
I hated that I’d chosen ego over her. That I’d let her think she was disposable. That I’d let her walk away without fighting for her. Because I was too busy chasing a fucking necklace.
Isabella was shrewd. She wouldn’t give me what I wanted without asking something in return. I half knew this was going to be a long night. So, I answered Roxanne coldly. Hoping she wouldn’t press. Hoping I could still surprise her.
I messaged Martin,
I dropped her off at the palazzo. She didn’t say much and neither did I. Then I left for my transactional dinner with Isabella.
The rooftop restaurant was designed for seduction—candlelight, panoramic views, soft jazz humming in the background. She had changed into a black dress with a plunging neckline, diamonds at her throat, and that same smug smile she’d always worn.
“Still brooding, I see,” she said, sipping her wine. “You haven’t changed.”
“I can’t say the same for you,” I replied.
I ordered my whiskey and gulped it in one go.
“I’m here. Hand over the necklace—I’ll wire the amount.”
She laughed. “You’re no fun tonight.”
“Stop stalling. Give me the necklace.”
I wanted to get it over with. The sooner I had the necklace, the sooner I could get back to Roxanne. The sooner I could be buried in her.
But Isabella dragged dinner out. Dessert. Espresso. Then she insisted we go to the casino.
“I want to play,” she said, looping her arm through mine.
“Like old times.”
We played blackjack. She leaned in too close. Her perfume was heavy, almost suffocating.
“Don’t,” I said, sharp, not wanting her to touch me.
I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stand her anymore.
She was everything I used to want—on paper.
But now she felt like a parody. Like a mask I used to wear when I didn’t know who I was.
Her perfume made me gag. Her voice made my skin crawl.
The way she touched me—everything felt repulsive.
I wanted to scrub her off me. Her voice.
Her perfume. Her touch. She felt like a version of myself I’d buried.
And I hated that I’d resurrected him just to chase a necklace.
She kept pressing.
“Why do you want the necklace so badly?” she asked, eyes sharp.
“I don’t need to explain myself.”
Especially not to someone like her, who once weaponised my weaknesses.
“So, a new woman?” she smiled with an eyebrow raised.
I didn’t answer.
She tilted her head.
“Is it the one from the auction? The one who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else?”
I clenched my jaw.
“She’s just an acquaintance,” I said.
And the lie tasted like blood. Because every word betrayed her. And every silence buried me. Because she wasn’t an acquaintance. She was the ache in my chest. The silence in my bones. The only thing that felt real in months. And I’d erased her with a sentence.
Isabella’s smile faded. She leaned back, twirling her hair.
“You always did lie well,” she said. “But not to me.”
I didn’t respond. I knew word would get back to Lorenzo as is. I didn’t want him anywhere near Roxanne. I’d become the version of myself I swore I’d killed—cold, careless, transactional. The kind of man who didn’t deserve to touch Roxanne.
She already seemed shaken by his encounter in Florence. As long as it was in my power, I’d do whatever it took to keep her safe. It was the least I could do. Even if it meant letting her go. Even if it meant she’d never know what she meant to me.
It was 7:30 a.m. I hadn’t slept. I was tired of the games.
“I’m leaving, Isabella. I’ve wasted enough time.” I said, voice low, irritated.
She stretched, slow and deliberate.
“Oh, come on! Don’t you want the necklace? Let’s have breakfast, and then we can catch up on some sleep in my room upstairs.”
She held up the blue velvet box, toying with me. The bitch had it with her all this time. I felt the last thread of patience snap in my chest. I finally let irritation seep into my voice.
“I’m done playing games you’ve already lost at. Go fuck yourself.”
I didn’t care about the necklace anymore. I cared about what it symbolised. That I’d tried. That I’d failed. That I still wanted to be the man Roxanne thought I could be.
She laughed. “You know I don’t need the money. I just wanted your time. I fell for you—despite everything. You were too irresistible.”
She pushed the box towards me. I took it and said.
“Save the theatrics for Lorenzo.”
Without waiting for her response, I left, climbing into the car and ordering the driver to take me to the palazzo. I hoped I wasn’t too late. But when I arrived, she was gone. And the silence she left behind was louder than any goodbye.
It screamed. It clawed at the walls. It told me I’d fucked it all up. It echoed every word I should’ve said. Every touch I didn’t give. Every moment I let her feel alone. And I didn’t know if I’d ever get the chance to fix it.
A note was on the dresser. The necklace I’d given her for the auction lay on top. I read her words—they wrecked me. Each letter mocked my absence, each word bled through the silence I’d left behind. They didn’t just sting; they gutted me.
I had to get to her. To feel her beneath my hands again, to remind myself what it meant to hold her like she belonged to me—and to prove that I hadn’t forgotten the way possession had always felt, raw and urgent, when it was hers alone.
Not to explain or beg, but to prove I still knew how to show up.
My hands were shaking. I didn’t know if it was rage or grief.
But I knew one thing—I couldn’t let her leave thinking I didn’t care. I had to get to her. Now.