As we race away in the car, a storm of anger and fear swells inside me. How could she be so reckless? How could she risk everything like that?
When the empty road stretches before us, I slam on the brakes, my heart pounding in my chest. I throw the...
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Two months had passed, and my mother had become less and less familiar to me with each day. The woman who used to tuck me into bed, who told me stories of strong women and taught me to believe in love—she no longer existed. In her place was a power-thirsty, manipulative woman I couldn’t recognize. She dictated my every move, controlling everything from what I wore to who I spoke to. It wasn’t even subtle. She didn’t try to hide it. She would look me straight in the eyes and command, with the cold precision of a queen on a throne, expecting me to bow to her every whim. But I refused to bend. No matter how hard she pushed, I stood my ground, my defiance burning brightly inside me like a fire I refused to let her extinguish.
My father was different. He didn’t demand or command. He was softer in his approach, always trying to talk to me, to connect in ways he had never tried when I was a child. He’d ask me about my day, wanting to know about my life when he wasn’t there. I knew it was guilt driving him, some misguided attempt to make up for lost time, but I wouldn’t let him have that satisfaction. Every time he tried to get close, I pushed him away. I couldn’t forgive them for what they did—for the lies, for the betrayal. They didn’t deserve forgiveness.
There wasn’t a moment that passed where I didn’t think about Gabriel. His name was carved into my heart, his memory haunting me day and night. I hadn’t slept peacefully since the day I lost him. Every night, I lay in bed, the tears staining my pillow as I cried myself to sleep, hoping against hope that I’d wake up and find him beside me. But he was gone. Dead, they told me, and the grief that lived in my chest was unbearable. I could barely breathe around it, like there was a weight pressing down on my chest, keeping me from feeling anything but pain.
To cope, I spent most of my days in the backyard, nursing the plants. I found some small comfort in the quiet of the garden, in the simple act of tending to life when my own felt like it was falling apart. The flowers bloomed under my care, thriving despite everything, and I wished I could be like them—strong, unbroken. But I wasn’t. I was a mess, shattered in ways no one could see.
One afternoon, as I knelt by the lavender bushes, I saw a shadow fall over me. My body tensed instinctively, my hands clenching into fists as I turned around to face the source of the intrusion. Gio.
He stood there, a smirk on his face, his eyes gleaming with the kind of arrogance that made my blood boil. “Your glare won’t scare me, princess,” he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m not my brother.”
My jaw tightened at the mention of Gabriel. Gio knew exactly which buttons to press. He wanted a reaction, and God help me, he was going to get one.
“Don’t you dare speak his name,” I hissed, rising to my feet, my anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re not even worth mentioning him.”
Gio’s smirk widened, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Oh, but he’s dead now, isn’t he? Just like I told you he’d be. All your defiance, your attitude, and where did it get you? With a dead lover and nothing else to show for it.”
My vision blurred with fury, my heart hammering in my chest. The world narrowed down to just me and him, and before I could stop myself, I swung my hand at him. The crack of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed in the garden. The force of the slap shocked even me, but I didn’t regret it.
For a moment, Gio’s face twisted in rage, and he stepped toward me, raising his hand as if to strike back. My heart raced, but I stood my ground, glaring at him with every ounce of hatred I could muster. If he wanted a fight, I was ready. But before he could act, Marco, my father stepped between us, his voice calm but firm.
“Gio, that’s enough,” Marco said, pushing him back gently but firmly. “Go.”
Gio glared at me, his chest heaving with anger, but he didn’t argue. With one last sneer in my direction, he turned and stormed away, disappearing around the corner of the house.
Marco turned to me, his expression softening as he reached out, his hand gentle as he tried to touch my shoulder. “Chiara, I know this is hard—”
“Don’t,” I snapped, stepping back out of his reach. I didn’t want his comfort. I didn’t want any of it. “I don’t need your sympathy, Marco. Just leave me alone.” My voice cracked at the end, betraying the storm of emotions swirling inside me, but I wouldn’t break in front of him.
He sighed, looking at me like I was some wounded bird he wanted to help. But I didn’t want help. I wanted my life back. Without another word, I turned and stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind me.
The next morning, my mother summoned me. She had a way of doing that—calling me to her like I was a servant, not her daughter. She told me to dress up neatly and come downstairs, her tone laced with that familiar condescension she’d adopted over the last two months.
So I decided to do the exact opposite.
I chose the most immodest dress I could find—a black, low-cut number that clung to my body like a second skin. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, and the neckline plunged deeper than anything I’d ever dared to wear. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t respectable. But it was exactly what I needed to piss her off. I smiled to myself in the mirror, feeling a small victory in my defiance.
When I walked downstairs, my mother’s eyes immediately narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line. Her fury was almost palpable, and it fueled me, making me stand a little taller, my smirk a little wider. She didn’t say anything, not yet, but the message in her eyes was clear. I was playing with fire, and she wasn’t happy about it.
Good.
“Chiara,” she said, her voice strained, “I’d like to introduce you to the Angelo family.”
I glanced at the group of people gathered in the room, my eyes landing on a man in his thirties—ugly, stout, and reeking of arrogance. He was dressed in a fine suit, but no amount of money could mask the sleaze that oozed from him.
“And this,” my mother continued, her voice tight with barely contained anger, “is your fiancé.”
I stared at the man for a moment, a cold, calculating smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Fiancé. My mother had just given me an opportunity she didn’t even realize would ruin everything.
