Page 30 of Stolen Queen

I imagine my father's face contorted with rage. The sharp sting of his hand across my cheek. His thunderous voice echoing through the home as he berates me for daring to defy him. He’d lock me in my room… or maybe down in the basement, treated like a prisoner.

It's not just my father’s punishment that terrifies me. It's what comes after, my father shipping me off to New York like cattle, into the arms of a man old enough to be my grandfather. A man with a reputation that makes my skin crawl.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the images flooding my mind. A sob escapes. Is this really all my life will ever be? Passed from one man's control to another's, never having a say in my own fate?

I want to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But what good would it do? I'm powerless. Matteo says he saved me.From what? I don’t feel safer. My life is smaller now than it was at home.

Matteo Moretti. The thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. I can't deny the spark I felt when we kissed, the way my body responded to his touch. But no matter how much I might be drawn to him, I can't forget what he's capable of. This is the same man known for his ruthlessness, his penchant for violence. The stories I've heard about Matteo Moretti make my blood run cold. How many people has he killed? How many lives has he ruined?

Then there’s his reputation around women. He’s a player, only using women, sometimes more than one at a time, for his own perverted desires. And I'm at his mercy, completely vulnerable to whatever he decides to do with me.

“Or you can stay here. Under my protection.”

He claims he's protecting me, but how can I trust him? What kind of savior locks up the person they're trying to protect? No matter how he tries to justify it, the fact remains that I'm not free. He's taken away my choice, my autonomy. Just like my father always has.

The thought makes anger flare in my chest. I'm tired of men thinking they know what's best for me, of being treated like a pawn in their games. Matteo may act charming, may claim he has my best interests at heart, but how is this any different from what I've always known?

I'm trapped, yes, but that doesn't mean I have to be passive. I've spent my whole life bowing to the whims of others, playing the dutiful daughter. Look where that's gotten me.

No more.

I may be Matteo's prisoner, but I refuse to let him control my spirit. He thinks he's won, that I'll be docile and grateful now that I've "chosen" to stay. He couldn't be more wrong.

I have nothing left to lose. Matteo has taken my ability to go home from me. He’s taken my freedom. For a moment, he took away my spirit, leaving me feeling utterly defeated. He can control my body, but not my mind. Why not push back against Matteo's arrogance, his assumption that he knows what's best for me?

I march to the door, pounding on it with my fist. "Matteo!"

There's no response, but I know he must be nearby.

"You can't keep me locked up forever!" I yell. "I'm not your prisoner or your pet.”

I wait for a reaction. I half expect him to burst in, angry at my defiance, telling me again how ungrateful I am. But the silence stretches on.

Fine. If he won't face me, I'll make sure he hears exactly what I think of his so-called protection.

"You're no better than my father!”

Did I piss him off? Has he given up? Because over the next few days, I remain confined to this room while Matteo comes and goes like clockwork, bringing meals, but he barely speaks a word. One day, he brings me new clothes… nice ones. Like they were chosen with care. Soft, expensive fabrics in styles I would have chosen for myself. How does he know my tastes so well?

Another day, he leaves me jewelry making supplies. These acts of kindness confuse me. If Matteo sees me as nothing more than a prisoner or a bargaining chip, why go to such lengths? There has to be more to it, some ulterior motive. But since he says very little to me anymore, I can’t decipher what he’s thinking or planning.

Each time the door opens, I brace myself, hoping for some kind of interaction, an explanation, anything. But Matteo's face remains impassive as he sets down trays of food or other items he’s gathered for me.

The meals are always delicious, far better than anything I've had before. I wonder who his cook is and why I never hear them in the apartment.

As the days pass, my frustration grows. What game is Matteo playing? Is he trying to win me over with luxury, make me complacent? Or is there genuine care behind his actions?

I wish he would just talk to me, explain himself. My mind races with possibilities, each more far-fetched than the last. Is he grooming me for some sinister purpose? Using me as leverage against my father? Or could he truly believe he's protecting me?

I stand at the window, my fingers tracing patterns on the cool glass. Outside, the world bustles with life, people hurrying down sidewalks, cars zipping past. My heart aches with longing to be out there. What I wouldn't give to feel the sun on my face, to breathe in fresh air, to simply walk down the street without fear or constraint.

The click of the door handle jolts me from my reverie. Matteo stands in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb. “Have you learned to fly? We’re on the sixty-fifth floor.”

I flinch and turn to him. “Just looking at the view.” I glance around the room, wondering if maybe I can try to make my escape.

“You can’t see much from the window at night.” He straightens. “You must be hungry. Let me get you some food.” He leaves, and I feel his absence acutely. These few words are the most he’s said to me in awhile. As much as I hate him for keeping me prisoner, I hate the silent solitude more.

He returns with a pasta dish that smells delicious.

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