Chapter 2
In the first month, I thought he would listen.
So I waited.
Every night, I stayed up until dawn, waiting for him to come back.
When he did, he reeked of alcohol or perfume. Not mine.
“Finn… about the wedding, it was actually—”
“Shut up.”
He didn’t even look at me.
By the second month, he stopped hiding it.
He brought women home openly.
He made sure they stayed in the room next to mine.
Made sure the door was left slightly open.
Made sure I could hear everything.
Every sound.
Every gasp.
Every moan.
I learned to press a pillow over my ears.
By the third month, I had lost sixteen pounds.
The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me anymore.
Sunken eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin.
Like something hollowed out from the inside.
That was when Isabella Moretti came.
The first time she stayed overnight, I finally understood who she was.
She was everywhere.
On TV. On billboards. On magazine covers.
Hollywood’s rising star.
Italian. Dark hair. Red lips.
The kind of beauty people called—
A true Donna.
That day, she stood at the gates of the estate, her arm looped through Finn’s.
Cameras flashed nonstop.
“I’m just a friend,” she told reporters with a smile.
No one believed her.
Neither did I.
That night, she stayed.
All night.
At three in the morning, I went downstairs for water.
She was standing in front of the fridge.
Wearing Finn’s shirt.
“So you’re Stella?” she said, looking me up and down.
Her eyes were cold, like she was assessing a piece of old furniture.
“Honestly,” she added, smirking,
“you look worse than in the pictures.”
I said nothing.
“I heard you used to work in a café?” she continued.
She laughed softly.
“Do you know how I met Finn?”
She leaned closer.
“On his private yacht. He rented the entire thing just to take me to dinner.”
I walked past her and poured myself a glass of water.
“Don’t you want to know what he calls me in bed?” she said behind me.
My hand paused for a fraction of a second.
“Bella,” she answered herself.
“He says I’m the one worth loving.”
I carried the glass back to my room.
Closed the door.
Slid down against it.
The water spilled onto the floor.
By the fourth month, I tried again.
To explain.
Finn came back late that night, alone, for once.
He reeked of alcohol.
He pushed me onto the bed, pinning me down.
He was too strong.
I couldn’t even turn over.
We had sex.
But this time, it was only that. No love.
The next morning, I found him in the living room.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Finn… please. Just listen to me once—”
He shook me off.
“Still lying?”
His eyes were like knives dipped in ice.
“Stella,” he said slowly,
“you ran from our wedding for five million dollars.”
“You lied about your mother being in an accident.”
“Do you even have a single honest word left?”
“I didn’t—”
“What’s next?” he cut in.
“Going to tell me you’re pregnant with my child?”
I froze.
He thought I was lying.
He thought everything was fake.
He leaned down, closing the distance between us,
his face inches from mine.
Then, word by word—
“A product with a price tag,” he said,
“thinks she gets to negotiate with me?”
That night, I lay in the dark.
My hand resting on my lower abdomen.
I didn’t know if there was a life growing inside me.
But I knew one thing.
If there was, he could never find out.
I started listening for footsteps in the room—
which ones were Finn’s,
which belonged to the maid
which to the guards.
I memorized everyone’s shift schedules.
I learned how to hide anything that shouldn’t be there before Finn came to search my room.
In the fifth month, I found Finn’s study door unlocked.
I went inside and opened a drawer.
There was a photograph.
A young former Don. Lucia. A child version of Finn.
And someone else. Torn out.
Only an arm remained.
Next to it was a file—records of the family’s money laundering.
I didn’t understand the numbers, but I knew exactly what it was.
It was a weapon.
I put the file and the photo back.
Then turned and left.
Isabella was standing at the end of the hallway.
Watching me.
“Find anything interesting?” she asked with a smile.
My heartbeat skipped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stepped closer.
Leaning toward my ear.
“You know something, Stella?” she whispered.
“He never loved you.”
“You were just a mistake.”
“And me?”
She smiled.
“I’m his choice.”
She walked away.
I went back to my room.
Opened the hidden compartment in my nightstand.
Inside was an old phone.
Marco had given it to me.
“Use it if you ever need help,” he’d said.
Marco.
My manager at the café.
My oldest friend.
He rarely talked about his family or his past.
All I knew was that his father was Italian and wealthy, but never contacted him.
Macro was also the one person I trusted most.
I turned the phone on.
Typed two words.
Help me.
Sent.
Then powered it off.
