Page 70 of Marriage of Revenge

I don't know Lea, don't know any of the names Paola lists like a funeral prayer - "Lea, Giuliana, Nico, Gino and more." People who were breathing this morning, who had dreams and hopes and futures. Gone.

When Paola whispers something in Italian to Vince, her spine straightening like steel, her eyes catch mine. Suddenly I'm back in that corridor, watching her writhe against Antonio, his hands claiming her body while his eyes claimed me through the mirror. His movements weren't just passion - they were performance, every thrust a promise of what awaited me. It feels like years ago instead of days.

Now wedding night looms like a shadow, and I can't stop remembering how he moved with her, how he'll expect the same from me. My doctor's warning echoes: "Treatment-induced menopause may not be permanent in someone your age, but for now..." The words felt clinical then. Now they're terrifying. Does Antonio know what chemo did to me? Did my father tell him his prize comes with conditions?

But maybe that's fitting - a broken bride for the Beast.

Before treatments, it was something I read about, something I wouldn't have to worry about for decades and now? I inhale deeply, remembering how she went on about the help I might need, help I'm not ready to ask Antonio for. The vulnerability of such a request, especially to him, has my chest constricting, peeling another layer of my armor.

Because there’s the little voice in my head that tells me that tonight won’t be like those romance novels I read anyways.Tonight isn’t about me, or him, it’s about sealing a marriage that means nothing.

Tonight or another night. After all, with everything that's happened, maybe he changed his mind. I rub my thumb and index finger together, trying to ground myself.

The sun sets in the distance, casting an orange glow over the ocean and there’s an intense tiredness gripping me, seeping deep into my bones.

“It’s time,” Paola announces, signaling Naomi and me to follow her. As we walk, Paola's uncertain gaze lingers on me, as if she's trying to piece together the puzzle I've become in this grand game. The path she takes us down is even less maintained, the frescoes on the wall are almost gone, the air thick with a sense of abandonment, but its isolation feels like a reprieve.

Before cancer, sex was something from romance novels - all passion and promise. Now it comes with medical warnings and needs I can't imagine voicing to Antonio. The thought of asking him for help, of showing him that kind of vulnerability, strips away whatever armor I have left.

Besides, this won't be like my hidden books where the dark prince's kiss melts ice into desire. Tonight - if it even happens after this bloodbath - isn't about pleasure or connection. It's about ownership. About proving the Beast can claim what he won.

My fingers rub together, seeking anchor in sensation while my mind spins possibilities. The sun bleeds into the Mediterranean like it's trying to wash away today's violence, and exhaustion hits harder than any of Henrik's threats. It settles in my bones like lead, like choices I can't take back.

"Come." Paola's command carries none of the confidence she showed in that corridor with Antonio. Her eyes catch mine like she's trying to read a story she doesn't know the ending to. She leads us down paths nature's reclaiming, past faded frescoesthat whisper of forgotten glory. The air hangs heavy with decay and secrets, but this forgotten corner of Antonio's fortress feels almost safe.

Almost like somewhere I could breathe.

If I remember how.

Any moment of quiet feels like mercy now. If I can just keep Naomi close, maybe we can find space to breathe between all these razor-edge moments.

"Get ready," Paola tells me, voice clipped.

"For what?" As if anything today follows normal rules.

"Dinner. He's waiting."

I almost laugh at the absurdity - playing house after warfare.

But then we turn a corner and there he is - all lethal grace even wounded, cutting his conversation with Franco short. The sight of him hits like that first kiss in his room. His dark hair's a mess like he's been running fingers through it, stubble shadowing the unburned side of his jaw in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch. When those midnight eyes find mine, electricity arcs between us sharp as blade edges.

Heat floods my neck, and my lips part without permission. My body remembers his touch like a brand, like every kiss we've shared was just practice for whatever comes next.

Like he's already under my skin, even though he hasn't really touched me yet.

And god help me, I want him to.

Every memory of his touch burns - his breath hot on my neck, stubble grazing skin like the sweetest kind of pain. The hunger in his eyes matches something wild waking up inside me, something treatments couldn't kill. I remember his fingers mapping my body like he was learning territory he planned to conquer, rough and gentle all at once, igniting needs I thought were buried with my old life. His scars stand proud in the fading light - a testament to survival, to what my father's cruelty carvedinto flesh. But they don't make him less beautiful. They make him real.

Looking at him feels like staring at the sun - dangerous and impossible to resist.

"Her wing for dinner?" Franco's question bounces off stone walls.

"My suite." Antonio's voice carries steel, but his eyes never leave mine. "My wing."

Paola's head tilts like she's solving a puzzle. "He's changing the script," she whispers, before offering him that smile that probably tastes like memories. "Boss." His nod back sets something twisting in my gut - am I really standing here trying to decode whether they're still sharing more than secrets?

As if I have any right to jealousy when he owns every part of me now anyway.

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