Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I look around, taking it in properly.
The place really is beautiful—dark, sleek tones of charcoal leather and deep wood, the kind of modern luxury that feels quietly expensive. Except for the huge vase of white roses and lilies in the foyer. It makes me smile before I can stop myself, a small but genuine curve of my lips. I catch the feeling instantly—fondness, warm and creeping—and I shut it down fast.
No.
I say it out loud, soft under my breath, like that’ll make it stick. “No, Viola. Don’t be a fool. You’ll literally destroy yourself.”
Turning away from the bright sight, I move toward the kitchen; the marble is cold under my feet. The fridge is stocked. A fresh fruit platter, organic eggs, fancy butter, jam, sausages, cured meats, caviar… Everything someone would need to lay on an absolute feast. My stomach gives a little rumble as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. The message is from him.
Sorry, I forgot to make some arrangements for your breakfast. I usually have mine at the club. I’ll get someone over to help you out.
Panic flickers quick and sharp. I like my solitude right now. I need it. The thought of someone else in the house, moving around and watching me, makes my chest tighten. I text back fast, fingers flying.
No need. There are ingredients here. I’m all good.
I hit send and wait, heart picking up speed. He doesn’t reply right away. Nervous he won’t answer in time, that the quiet will stretch too long and I’ll start overthinking everything again, I tap his name and call him instead. The second the line connects, and I hear his voice—low, rough, that same calm tone from last night—my heart gives a hard, stupid thud. Heat rushes up my neck as memories flash: his hands on my skin, the way he’d groaned my name, the slow, deep way he’d moved inside me. I pull in a quick breath before I can stop it.
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound calm. Then I blurt out in a rush about the ingredients in the fridge, how the old house was always filled with movement and people and noise, and how much I like the quiet.
He listens. I can hear the faint smile in his voice when he answers. “I understand,” he says, quiet and warm. “You can order anything you want and get it sent to the apartment.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
There’s a brief silence after that—neither of us hangs up, neither of us speaks. I don’t want to end the call. I won’t admit it, not even to myself, but I don’t. I used to think his voice sounded cold and distant. Now it feels like warmth wrapping around me, steady and safe. It terrifies me how much I like it.
“You’ll need to move out of Salvatore’s house.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yes. I don’t have much stuff. I’ll call a taxi later today and go get them.”
“No!” he barks, then pauses, and adds more gently. “There is a car on standby for you. You can leave anytime you want. Press the button on the elevator panel—the one with the hat symbol—head down to the garage like I showed you. The driver will be waiting.”
I’m amazed. Impressed, really. The thoughtfulness of it, the way he’s making sure I have freedom without having to ask… it settles softly in my chest.
“Okay,” I agree. “Thank you.”
“See you later.”
“Okay.” The line stays open another second. I hear the faint rustle of him moving, the low murmur of the city in the background. I don’t want to let go. But I do. I end the call and stand in the quiet kitchen, phone still in my hand, heart still racing from the sound of his voice.
I don’t know what to do with these strange emotions rushing through me. I turn towards the open fridge and tell myself I’ll figure it out later. One step at a time. Just like I always have.
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.