My hands curl into fists. He's right, but there's no chance in hell I'm considering his offer. At least my father is a familiar evil that I have learned to live with; what are the chances that both he and his family will not treat me worse? If my father is disgusted by my disability, what are the odds that his family won’t be horrified?
I’m not a charity case, I sign, my movements urgent. I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t need saving. Especially not by you.
He takes a step forward. “Liliana.”
The way he says my name, it’s not pitying, it’s not commanding. It’s something else entirely. Something softer. Something I don’t have a name for. Something I refuse to dwell on.
I hate how it makes me feel. Like something warm is trying to slip past my defenses. I hate it. I hate him.
“Listen to me,” he says.
I shake my head hard. No.
He sighs, and a flicker of satisfaction stirs in me. Good. Let him give up. Let him walk away, go back to wherever he came from, and leave me to scrape myself back together, like I always do. I’ve handled worse alone. I don’t need him pretending to care.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t get to sound like he does. He doesn’t get to make promises he’ll never keep. Not when every hope I’ve ever held onto has shattered in my hands. Not when all he’s offering is another gilded cage, just one with nicer locks.
Hope is a cruel thing. And I’ve learned, over and over again, that it always betrays me in the end.
And yet, I look at him, because some traitorous part of me is starting to stir awake. And he returns my gaze, the intensity unflinching. Those storm-gray eyes bear into mine like he sees something in me worth staying for.
I hate that some stupid, reckless part of me wants to believe him. But, Dio, what harm could it really do?
The thought shouldn't even cross my mind, but it’s there now, gaining root. Because the truth is, I don’t know how many more days I can survive in that house with my father. Not with the way he looks at me like I’m broken, something sort of a burden he never wanted. Not with every word from his mouth flaying me open, reminding me I’m unwanted, useless, too much, and never enough.
I turn away from Giovanni because looking at him too long makes my chest ache in a way I can’t name. He says nothing, just waits. Like he knows I need the quiet to think. Like he understands what it means to have nothing left to lose and still feel like you’re drowning in everything.
I stare at the hedge beside me, the way the rose petals droop in the shade. One of them is bruised, the edge curling. I lift a hand and touch it. Soft. Already dying.
I cross my arms over my chest, gripping my elbows until it hurts. My thoughts keep circling back to the same ugly truth. One more day under that roof might be the one that breaks me. And Giovanni—whatever this arrangement is, whatever power he’s trying to wield—it also feels like a door being thrown wideopen. A chance to step out of hell. Even if it means stepping into something unknown.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Everything. That’s what. Everything could happen. He too could turn out worse than my father. He could see my silence as a flaw and use it against me. He could lock me away in prettier rooms and call it kindness. But I look at him again, and there’s no cruelty in his eyes. No smugness. Just… resolve. And maybe something else I don’t dare to name.
My shoulders sag.
I turn back to him. You want me to trust you, I sign slowly.
“I want you to have a choice,” he replies.
I stare at him.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? He didn’t need to ask. He could have forced it. Could have dragged me into this with papers and titles and leverage. But he didn’t. He came to find me. He’s asking. And I’m so tired. So unbelievably tired of being alone even in the midst of people.
I step back to give myself a breath of space, then raise my hands more slowly this time. I’ll do it, I sign.
My fingers tremble halfway through, but I force them to complete what they are saying. I’ll marry you.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. My throat feels like it's closing up. My hands fall back to my sides, lifeless. I want to disappear.
Then I feel him come closer as if he isn't close enough, as if his scent—musk and spice—isn’t heady enough.
He doesn’t touch me, doesn't reach for my hand or brush my arm like another man might. He just says my name again, and this time it feels different. Like he sees what it cost me to say yes.
“I’ll make this worth it,” he says.
I nearly sputter a scoff, but I don’t. I’m not giving him anything more than I already have.
