Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝘈/𝘕: 𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 ~ 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘌𝘕𝘑𝘖𝘠𝘠𝘠𝘠𝘠 !!!
· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ────── · ·
𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑰𝑺 𝑨𝑵 𝑼𝑵𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑴 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈. To survive is to linger on the precipice of uncertainty, to move through the world with the weight of an unseen specter pressing against your back, always waiting for the next inevitable blow. It is breathing without feeling, existing without meaning.
But to live—ah, that is something else entirely. To live is to embrace the dawn without dreading the dusk, to taste the air as if it were spun from gold, to move forward without the ever-present whisper of fear gripping your throat. Living is more than drawing breath; it is feeling the rhythm of existence pulse through your veins, untamed and unburdened.
With Valentino, I felt as though I was finally living—shedding the weight of survival, stepping beyond the shadow of what I had been made to be. For the first time, I was not just Beta. Not just a product of expectation and duty. With him, the title meant nothing. The pity that clung to me like a second skin, the relentless uncertainty that gnawed at my bones—they all faded into the background, insignificant against the warmth of his presence.
With him, I was simply Rowan. And for the first time, that was enough.
The elevator chimed softly; a delicate note swallowed by the crushing weight of exhaustion pressing against my shoulders.
As the polished steel doors slid open, I stepped into the dimly lit interior, the muted glow of recessed lighting casting elongated shadows along the sleek, mirrored walls. The scent of expensive cologne clung to the air, interwoven with the sterile crispness of industrial cleaner—a sharp contrast to the warmth of my own breath fogging faintly in the cold, confined space.
Carmello entered beside me, his presence familiar yet unobtrusive, his own silence a quiet acknowledgment of the long day ahead of us. My shoes clicked softly against the marble flooring, the sound barely registering as the doors sealed shut, cocooning us in a brief, weightless limbo between floors, between moments.
It had been a month since I started working under Carbone, and though I couldn't pinpoint the exact reason, I felt the strain creeping into my bones more than before. Perhaps it was the weight of my growing bump, the undeniable proof of life pressing against the fabric of my carefully tailored suits. At six months, rounding the final stretch of my second trimester, there was no hiding it anymore. My stomach had become a quiet declaration, a tangible shift in my existence.
Leandro—Valentino's tailor—had done a remarkable job adjusting my suits, disguising the curve of my abdomen with expertly placed seams and looser cuts, but no amount of fine tailoring could slow the changes. I moved differently now, more deliberate, more aware of the subtle strain in my spine and the way even something as trivial as climbing stairs had turned into an unavoidable irritation.
