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I padded barefoot across the cold wooden floor, an unsettling silence enveloping me like a shroud. The emptiness of the house gnawed at me; it was too quiet, too isolated. It felt as if the walls were waiting to exhale secrets they had swallowed, but for now, they held their breath and watched me move through the space that felt both prison and sanctuary.
I still wore my gown, which was damp with sweat and stuck to my skin like a shroud.
My stomach growled, betraying the fear with a reminder of more basic needs. In the small kitchenette, I found bread, eggs, and butter—staples left for me, no doubt, by Silvio’s careful planning. My hands worked mechanically to whip up some scrambled eggs, the sizzle of the pan a comforting sound in the otherwise silent beach house.
With each bite of the simple meal, clarity began to seep into my foggy mind, and with it, a sobering realization. I remembered the masquerade ball, the glint of masks, the whisper of silk—but after that, only fragments. He must have drugged me. There was no bruising, no soreness that would suggest a struggle. Just this void in my memory where the night should have been, and the cold truth that my father, Silvio Orsini, had orchestrated my blackout.
I clenched my jaw, anger simmering beneath the surface. How could he? Yet even as the question echoed in my head, I knew the answer. Protection. Control. That was always his way.
But he had never been like that with me.
He had always been a good father. Sure, protective, overprotective even. But kind. Sweet.
He loved my sister and I beyond measure. I knew that for sure.
So why in the world had he drugged me?
The father I knew would have never done this. He’d taken me to my first dentist appointments and held me when I was scared. He’d taken me ice skating in the city during the winter. When we’d gone to the Vatican, he’d stayed with me looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel trying to dissect details long past the time my sister and my mother had gotten bored.
He was the reason I’d manage to become an actuary, not just because he’d paid for my career–and he had definitely done that–but also because he’d stay up well past what was supposed to be my bedtime and help me through complex mathematical problems I would do for fun–because I really was a fucking nerd–patiently guiding me through each step until I understood.
He would celebrate my achievements with genuine pride, his eyes sparkling with my accomplishments.
As I stood there, the taste of eggs turning to ash in my mouth, the sea continued its relentless assault on the shore, indifferent to the turmoil it mirrored inside the little beach house on stilts.
I set the plate aside, my appetite lost to the churning thoughts within me. I couldn’t stay here, a prisoner in a gilded cage, even if it was one of my father’s making. But as I stepped onto the balcony, the drop to the sandy beach below looked like a leap into oblivion. The house, perched on its lofty stilts, offered no easy escape. My heart raced with the thought of jumping, but sanity held me back—it was too high, too reckless, especially in my condition.
Even if I survived, who knew if my babies would? I put my hand protectively on my stomach as I turned away from the edge, feeling the cool ocean breeze tug at the loose strands of my hair. It was then that the silence was broken by the distinct click of a lock disengaging. I stiffened, every muscle tensing as the door swung open behind me.
“Adriana,” came the deep, resonant voice I knew all too well, laced with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—was it concern or just another facet of his control? Silvio Orsini, my father, stood there, and I prepared myself for whatever would come next.
It didn’t fucking matter.
Panic surged through me as the door creaked open and I instinctively backed up against the balcony railing, my bare feet scraping against the wood. My eyes darted around, searching for something, anything that could serve as a makeshift weapon. But there was nothing; no potted plants to hurl, no loose boards to wield—just the expansive sky above and the relentless sea below.
“Ade, baby,” my father’s voice broke through my frantic thoughts, a softness to it that felt as out of place as a dove in a lion’s den.
I turned, pressing my back against the cool metal of the railing, and found Silvio Orsini, the man who had instilled equal parts love and fear in my heart since childhood, standing there with a look that was all too unfamiliar on his face. Remorse. The morning sun caught the silver streaks in his hair, a deceptive halo for a man who made angels weep.
In his hands, he held a bouquet of flowers, their vibrant colors mocking the dreary predicament that bound us together. He moved towards me slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and I suppressed the urge to flinch.
“Adriana, I...” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, the lines around his eyes deepening with sincerity. “I should never have slapped you. That was...unforgivable.”
The flowers were now inches from me, and every muscle tensed as I fought the primal impulse to snatch them and hurl them into the abyss below. Instead, I locked my gaze with his, trying to decipher the truth in those dark, brooding eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand sins.
“Words are easy, Dad,” I said, my own voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. “It’s your actions that cut deep.”
He nodded, an unreadable emotion flickering across his face before he set the flowers down on a small table nearby, a silent offering left untouched between us. “I suppose that’s fair,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
“Daddy, what do you want from me?” I demanded, my voice betraying the weariness that had seeped into my bones. I hated how much I sounded like a child.
“Right now? Just to talk,” he replied, his tone softer than I’d ever heard it. He went back into the living room and I realized how cold it was out there on the balcony, so I had no choice but to follow him inside. My feet were freezing.
“Coffee,” he said, handing me a steaming cup from my favorite little coffee shop. “
“I brought you this. Let’s call it a truce, if you will.”
Suspicion pricked at my mind, yet the aroma of the coffee pulled at me, wrapping around my senses like a familiar embrace. It had been too long since I’d had something comforting. My body felt as fragile as the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, and against my better judgment, I followed him to the living room as he beckoned me to sit down in front of him.
