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‘No. I’m not.’
Lorenzo’s bald statement of denial sent a cold chill through Chloe, and she felt an automatic need to dispute it. Of course he was starting to feel like Emma’s father—he had to be.
‘I’m sure that you are,’ she said gently. ‘Maybe only a little. But the connection between you will grow over time.’
‘I want her to be well and happy—I have made a commitment, and I fully intend to keep my word,’ he said stiffly, ‘but my positive intentions for the child are driven by what is the correct thing to do for her continued well-being. Not by my emotions. Not by feelings I do not have.’
Chloe stared at him, momentarily stunned by the enormity of his statement. But she could sense the frustration bubbling beneath his stern exterior—see that he was keeping something battened down inside him.
‘It’s understandable,’ she said, treading carefully. ‘She’s not your flesh and blood, and she did come into your life suddenly and unexpectedly. As she gets older things will change.’
She paused, hoping for some acceptance from him. Giving him a moment to say something—anything. But he maintained an oppressive silence—a silence that Chloe felt compelled to fill. She couldn’t leave things like this. She just couldn’t.
‘It will be different when you have your own children,’ she said. ‘You’ll have nine months to get used to the idea of a baby. And the first time you lay eyes on it, you will love it immediately.’
‘No,’ Lorenzo bit out. ‘There is no reason to assume I will love my children. I have told you I will do everything in my power to ensure they feel loved—that is the only guarantee I can make. And that is the most important thing.’
‘How can you say that?’ Chloe gasped. ‘Of course you will love your own children. It’s a natural instinct.’
‘Not for everyone,’ he said. ‘You and I both know that to our cost. My parents did not love me—my mother sold me when I was five years old to my father as part of her divorce settlement!’
‘But…but surely…at least that means your father loved you,’ Chloe stumbled, horrified by Lorenzo’s outburst. ‘You know he wanted you.’
‘I was nothing more than another commodity to him,’ Lorenzo said bitterly.
‘No.’ Chloe shook her head in denial.
‘Don’t tell me what my childhood was like,’ Lorenzo said. ‘And before you start talking about natural parental instincts, perhaps you should remember how your father walked out on your seventh birt
hday. And your mother—she may have waited till you were grown up, but when was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘Why are you being like this?’ Chloe cried. ‘Why would you say such horrible things?’
‘To stop your unrealistic, idealised expectations,’ Lorenzo grated. ‘I have given you my assurance that I will be a good father—but I can’t promise to feel something that is not under my control.’
‘If you don’t expect to love your children—why do you even want them?’ Chloe cried, jumping to her feet with Emma still in her arms and backing away from him. ‘What kind of monster are you?’
Suddenly she didn’t want to hear his answer—she couldn’t stand to be near him a moment longer. Clutching Emma tightly, she stumbled out of the room, needing to get as far away from him as possible.
Lorenzo made no attempt to stop her leaving.
His heart was thudding violently in his chest and his palms were damp with sweat.
She had called him a monster—and maybe she was right. But all he could think about was the five-year-old boy he had once been, confused and hurting—and simply wanting his mother’s warm and reassuring presence.
He didn’t know anything about love. He’d never been on the receiving end of it, and he’d never felt it himself for another human being. He didn’t even know if he was capable of it.
Chloe stood on the balcony that led off from the bedroom she shared with Lorenzo. It was high up on a corner of the palazzo, and she had a clear view out through the mouth of the Grand Canal and across the Venetian Lagoon. It was an overcast day in June, and the calm water was a muted grey, reflecting the dull, colourless sky.
Out of nowhere she found herself remembering Lorenzo telling her about the lagoon, how the tranquil surface hid a treacherous underwater terrain of hidden channels and shifting mudflats that had protected the city against attack for centuries.
She couldn’t help thinking about how that applied to Lorenzo, and how she had only just started to discover what lay beneath the surface. She’d been standing there looking out at the water for ages, while Emma took her nap, hoping the soft sea breeze would clear her head. But all she could think about was her terrible argument with him.
At first the discovery that he did not think he was capable of love had shocked and angered her. But then the more she thought about it, the more she had found herself feeling drained and heartsick. How could he have simply given up on love?
On their wedding day in February, when she’d found out that he thought marriages based on love were doomed to failure, she had been upset by how cynical he had been. But finding out that he didn’t even believe that he would be able to love his own children had painted an entirely different picture.
It wasn’t cynicism. It was a total lack of hope.
