Page 88 of Stalk Me

I flip through page after page, searching for any mention of the illness Mario and my father spoke of. Nothing about cancer. Nothing about the deteriorating condition. Just routine checkups showing a healthy man in his sixties.

My hands shake as I spread the papers across the desk. This can’t be right. Why would they lie about his health? Why drag me here under false pretenses?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes me freeze. I quickly gather the files, shove them back into the drawer, and then quickly rise from his office chair and head toward the door.

I need answers.

Following the marble corridor toward Father’s usual morning spot in the conservatory, questions tumble through my mind. Each step echoes against the stone floor as I search for him, determined to understand why I was brought here.

The conservatory doors stand open, sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling onto empty chairs. No sign of him. I turn back, checking his other haunts—the library, the garden terrace, his private study.

Where is he? My heart pounds faster as I move through the villa. I must look into his eyes when I ask him about these lies. I need to know what game they’re playing with me.

Through the French doors leading to the garden terrace, I spot Father and Mario sharing cigars, their voices drifting up through the open window above. I press myself against the wall, hidden behind a thick curtain.

“She’s settling in well,” Father says, taking a long draw from his cigar. His movements are fluid and energetic—nothing like someone battling a serious illness. And who would smoke while they’re getting cancer treatment, anyway?

Mario’s laugh echoes across the terrace. “The health crisis worked perfectly. She’s too concerned about your well-being to question things too deeply.”

My blood runs cold. The medical files I found weren’t wrong after all.

“I feel guilty using such manipulation,” Father admits, “but we needed her here. The gallery was making her soft. She needs to embrace her true heritage and learn our ways.”

“It was necessary,” Mario says. “She wouldn’t have come otherwise. You’ve seen how she handles herself. It’s in her blood.”

“True.” Father’s chair scrapes against the stone. “Now that she’s here, we can guide her toward her rightful place. The Castellano empire needs a strong heir.”

“She’s perfect for it,” Mario agrees. “All that fire beneath that polished exterior. Once she accepts who she really is...”

I bite my lip until I taste blood, fighting back the urge to scream. Every word they speak tears away another piece of what I thought was real. The illness, the urgency, the emotional manipulation—it was all carefully orchestrated to get me here.

My fingers curl into fists as their conversation continues, each casual revelation driving home how thoroughly I’ve been deceived. Not just now, but apparently, their machinations shaped my entire life.

I ease away from my hiding spot, careful not to make a sound. I need time to think, to plan. They might have orchestrated this whole scenario, but they don’t know I’ve discovered their deception.

I stumble back to my room, my vision blurred with unshed tears. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps as I sink onto the bed, wrapping my arms around myself.

They played me. Like a perfectly tuned violin, they struck every emotional chord. The lost daughter reunited with her dying father—what a masterful performance. I almost laugh at how easily I had fallen for it.

My fingers dig into my arms as I remember the concern in Antonio’s eyes when we first met. The way his hand trembled as he touched my cheek. All calculated. All false.

The worst part? For a brief, shining moment, I’d felt complete. Finding my birth father and understanding where I came from filled a void I’d carried since childhood. Now, that wholeness shatters, leaving jagged edges that cut deeper than before.

I press my palm against my chest, trying to ease the ache. How dare they? How dare they take something so sacred—a daughter’s love for a father she never knew—and twist it into a tool for manipulation?

The medical files flash through my mind. Every pristine page mocks my gullibility. I’d been so ready to support him through his illness, to learn about our family while we had time left. Instead, I’m learning exactly what kind of family I come from.

A family that lies. That manipulates. They see nothing wrong with exploiting their blood’s emotions to achieve their goals.

My throat tightens as I remember Mario’s words. “The gallery was making her soft.” As if my life’s work, everything I’ve built, means nothing compared to their grand plans for me.

The anger comes then, hot and cleansing. It burns away the tears, leaving clarity in its wake. I may be a Castellano by blood, but they’ve shown me exactly who they are. And I refuse to let their manipulation define me.

34

NIKOLAI

Ilean against the window frame, studying Sofia’s graceful movements through the courtyard. Her silk dress catches the late afternoon sun, but the subtle shift in her bearing draws my attention. The warm smile she offers Antonio doesn’t reach her eyes.

---