Chapter Sixteen
Miranda
I woke slowly, groggy and disoriented. The morning sunlight, though faint, sliced through the windows, its brightness nearly blinding me.
I blinked, trying to adjust, but the glare only made the ache in my head throb harder.
My mouth was parched, each swallow scraping my throat.
A dull, persistent pounding echoed in my skull, and a wave of nausea rolled through me, leaving my stomach uneasy and unsettled.
Grumbling, I rolled onto my back, the soft silky sheets gliding over my skin as the faint scent of something familiar tickled the back of my mind. I shifted, each small movement sending fresh shards of pain through my temples. The taste of red wine lingered, bitter and unwelcome.
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, half-expecting to see a string of missed calls or texts. But the screen was empty as the room around me slowly came into focus, every detail sharper and more menacing in the light.
Panic fluttered in my chest as I slowly sat up, hugging the black silk sheets to my chest while I took in my surroundings.
The bathroom door opened and out walked Massimo Vitale, fresh as a daisy from his morning shower, a black towel draped low around his waist as water glistened off his pristine, muscular body.
I gulped.
A low, rich voice slid through the quiet. “Good morning, Signora Vitale. I trust you slept soundly. I know I did.” His words carried a teasing edge, every syllable deliberate, almost caressing. The title—Signora Vitale—rang in my ears, foreign and heavy.
I shivered as the cool air brushed my bare arms.
“Signora?” The word barely escaped me, thin as breath, as I glanced down at my left hand. My world tipped, my vision blurred, and for a moment everything stilled—except for the cold, unmistakable weight pressing against my ring finger. My heart thudded, frantic.
“No.” My voice trembled, lost.
Massimo’s smirk widened as his towel fell to the floor with a careless flick.
He moved with leisurely confidence, crossing to the armoire, his nakedness almost ceremonial, displaying a power that pressed at the edges of the room.
“Oh yes, Miranda. You proved remarkably adventurous last night. I admit, I was quite impressed.”
His words slithered in, muddled and sharp.
My thoughts splintered, each scrambling for meaning.
Adventurous? Last night? I tried to remember, but everything after Oliver’s departure was a fog of color and sound.
My mouth dried further, the taste of panic bitter and electric at the back of my tongue.
“What?” The question came out broken, thin.
I shrank into the sheets, desperate for answers.
“Where... where did you hear that name?”
He paused, drawing out the silence. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the damp air, and the click of a drawer sounded impossibly loud. “Which name, wife?” His gaze sharpened, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You have so many, it is hard to keep track.”
My head pounded, thoughts fracturing. “Miranda.”
The syllables were all I could manage, a lifeline in the chaos.
He slipped into boxer briefs with unhurried precision, every motion deliberate.
“That is your legal name, yes? Miranda Roxanne Williams-Franks, not Savannah Scott. Yet, neither is your birth name, is it? You have layers of secrets, wife—so much so, you seem adrift within them. Shall I enlighten you with your truth, wife?”
His words were silk wrapped around steel, each revelation a threat.
My pulse spiked. The word—wife—echoed, loud and mocking, battering at my defenses. “Stop... calling me that!”
I clutched the sheet tighter, the fabric rough beneath my fingers.
He laughed, the sound booming and careless, filling the room with cold amusement. “And why would I do that when it’s the truth?”
“Because...” My throat closed, words refusing to come. “It isn’t—it’s not true.”
His smile sharpened, eyes flicking to my ring. “I beg to differ. That fucking rock on your finger says differently.”
A flash of last night flickered in my mind—Oliver’s worried face, the taste of wine, bottles of them, the way the walls blurred.
Fear swelled.
“What happened last night?” My voice was barely there, more a plea than a question. Silence stretched, weighted and suffocating.
Massimo’s eyes narrowed, lips curling into a secret. “Don’t try to remember. You’ll only give yourself a bigger headache. Besides, I doubt you’ll recall anything at all.”
His tone was almost gentle, but the threat was unmistakable, and the room seemed to close in, thick with secrets and the cold, relentless certainty of things I could not remember.
Heart pounding against my ribs, I fixed my gaze on him, voice barely more than a trembling whisper. “You... you drugged me.”
Even as I spoke, my hands shook, fists clenched tightly in the sheets, knuckles aching with fear and uncertainty.
Now fully dressed, Massimo walked over and leaned close as I shrank back against the pillows.
He took his time looking at my body as he licked his lips before his eyes found mine and hardened. “Prove it.”
I swallowed hard, searching for something, anything—proof, memory, the truth buried in the haze of last night. But the blankness pressed in, cruel and absolute.
My doubts warred with fury, twisting sharply inside me.
“Why? Why would you do that?” I managed each word, trembling as if afraid to exist.
Massimo’s expression didn’t soften. Instead, he smiled, slow and deliberately, like a man utterly in control. He tilted his head, studying me with cold amusement. “Because I can.”