“You don’t need it,” he corrected, his hand sliding to my waist. “I want you to have it. There’s a difference.”
He picked out a deep emerald silk dress, held it up against me, and his eyes went dark. “This one. Wear it tonight.”
I didn’t argue. I wore it to dinner that night, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. We sat at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Duomo, and every time I looked up from my plate, he was watching me. Not the view. Not the wine. Just me.
“I want to remember this,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “The way you look right now. The way the light catches your hair. The way you smile when you taste something you like.”
My heart did a stupid flip. “You’re being cheesy.”
“I’m being honest.” He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. “I’ve never had someone to do this with. To show things to. To watch them experience the world for the first time. It’s…” He paused, searching for the word. “It’s everything.”
The words are smudged from my hand dragging across the ink. Below the title, memories crowd the pages in messy paragraphs and unfinished thoughts—I’m desperate to trap every detail.
Days four and five were in Florence.
He took me to a trattoria that had been in the same family for three generations. No menu. The owner—a man named Enzo who hugged Lorenzo like a brother—just brought dish after dish: handmade pasta with truffles, ossobuco so tender it fell apart on my fork, tiramisu that made me close my eyes and moan.
“This is where my mother used to bring me,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft. “Before she got sick.”
I looked at him—really looked—and saw the boy he must have been. The boy who lost his mother too young, who grew up in a family that valued power over love, who learned to control everything because he’d never been able to control the things that mattered.
I reached across the table and took his hand. “Tell me about her.”
He did. He told me about her laugh, her cooking, and the way she used to sing to him in Italian. He told me about the last time he saw her, how he held her hand as she slipped away, how he swore he’d never let anyone he loved go again.
His grip on my hand tightened. “You’re not going anywhere, Zara.”
It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t argue.
Tomorrow was Verona.
He told me this morning, over coffee and fresh pastries on the terrace. “We’re going to Verona tomorrow.”
I nearly choked on my cappuccino. “Verona?”
“Juliet’s balcony. The Arena. The bridges.” He was watching me with that look—the one that said he’d been planning this fora while. “You mentioned you always wanted to see the home of Romeo and Juliet.”
I remembered. Vaguely. I’d been emotional, rambling, half-drunk, and I never thought he was paying attention. But he always pays attention.
“Lorenzo…” I didn’t know what to say. “That’s so… you didn’t have to.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his forehead touching mine. “I want to. I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Zara. Let me.”
And I’m starting to believe him.
Because it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to buy me. It doesn’t feel like he’s throwing money at me to keep me quiet or compliant. It feels like… like he genuinely gets joy from seeing me happy. Like my smile is a drug he’s addicted to.
He’s so different in the bedroom, though. That’s the part I keep coming back to, the part I can’t quite reconcile.
During the day, he’s attentive. Gentle. He holds my hand, opens doors, and pulls out chairs. He watches me with soft eyes and asks what I want to do next. He’s almost shy in the way he offers me things—a gelato, a piece of history, a view of a lake—like he’s afraid I’ll say no.
But at night…
At night, he’s a different man. His hands are everywhere all the time. He pulls me into corners, presses me against walls, lifts me onto counters, and takes me right there, not caring who might walk in. He grips my hips hard enough to leave bruises, bites my shoulder, growls my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, over and over, as he moves inside me. “Say it.”
