Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Like if I step out of line . . . Well, I don’t want to think about what that means. His warning hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
My teeth grind and my heart pounds. I want to throw something . . . something expensive. Instead, I take one long breath. Then I turn and walk straight toward the nearest exit.
Because if Lorenzo Amante wants obedience, he should have married someone else.
I push open the back entrance and step outside. It’s chilly today. I probably shouldn’t be out here without a jacket, but I can’t find it in me to care. Because for one perfect second, the world feels normal. Like I’m just a normal woman stepping outside to breathe in the fall air.
Then all my illusions are smashed to the ground when two guards step into my path.
And by step, I mean materialize from the shadows.
“Mrs. Amante.” One of them dips his chin, voice low, polite, empty.
The title makes my stomach clench.
“I’m going for a walk.” I keep my tone light on purpose, like I’m asking permission to exist.
“No.” The answer comes clean and immediate.
The second guard folds his arms. “You were instructed to remain indoors.”
I blink at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“We are.” No apology. No smiles. Just an order, and a hidden threat beneath it.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “So that’s it? I’m trapped in my own home?”
The first guard’s eyes meet mine. “This isn’t your home.”
There’s no malice in his voice, but the comment still stings.
“I’m allowed outside.” I lift my chin. “It’s the morning. I’m not trying to escape.”
“You’re not allowed outside alone.”
“Oh my god.” I drag a hand down my face. “If I bring a chaperone and a permission slip—”
“Mrs. Amante.” The second guard straightens, voice careful now, like he’s stepping around a tripwire. “Please return inside. Don’t make this difficult.”
I stare at them. I can push . . .
I can even scream.
Hell, the world is my oyster with the shit show I can create, but instead, I turn sharply and walk back inside, fury coiling in my spine.
Fine, I won’t go outside, but I’ll find freedom somewhere else, and I know exactly the spot . . .
The library feels like stepping into a different century. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with leather-bound books. Tall arched windows spilling gold light across the floor.
I trail my fingers along the spines, letting the texture ground me. Nothing beats this feeling.
My gaze skates over the titles, and I’m not surprised that half the collection is violent in some way. The Art of War, The Iliad, War and Peace. I mean, what did I expect from Lorenzo’s library? Jane Austen?
I pull out a volume at random.
The Count of Monte Cristo
Of course.
I shove it back like it burned me and keep wandering. Toward the back wall, behind a half-open cabinet, something catches my eye.
A frame.
Face down.
Which, in Lorenzo’s world, might as well be a neon sign that says don’t touch.
My fingers slide it out gently anyway because being told no has never been my kink.
I flip it over—
And forget how to breathe.
It’s him.
Young him.
Maybe sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Wild hair. A grin that’s reckless and real.
He’s standing in front of a rusted chain-link fence, shoulders relaxed, eyes soft. Looking at this makes my throat tighten painfully. Because I knew that boy.
And that boy didn’t survive.
My thumb drifts along the edge of the frame, slow and stupidly tender. He doesn’t smile like this anymore. He barely smiles at all unless it’s sharp enough to cut someone. This is the way he used to smile at me.
He used to be human.
I swallow hard and set the frame down with careful precision, like if I handle it wrong, I’ll shatter something inside me.
My eyes fill with tears, and I know I’m close to breaking. I need to get out of here, to go home . . . because the guard is right, this place isn’t my home. It’s not his either. It’s a museum of what he became. And now it’s supposed to be my cage.
Fantastic.
I start to walk back out of the room to find somewhere else to hide away with my depressed thoughts.
A corner desk sits beneath the windows, and while that’s not anything special, what’s sitting on top of it is.
A phone.
Perfect.
Ever since Lorenzo took my phone away after the wedding, I’ve missed having a line of communication to the world.
I’m not a big texter, and social media is not my thing, but I like having it. But I guess in Lorenzo’s mind, prisoners don’t get to make calls after all.
I grab the receiver and dial my parents.
“This number is temporarily unavailable.”
I frown and dial again. Same response. I try my mother’s direct line. My father’s office. The estate. Every number, and every time I dial, I get the same thing . . . Nothing.