Page 149 of Freed
I almost laugh at the absurdity of that. Birdie is not what came between Lorenzo and me. There was never enough between Lorenzo and me for anyone to come between. But my father does not care about truth. Only leverage.
“I won’t do it,” I say.
His face hardens. Then his gaze drops again to my stomach, and the message lands loud and clear.
He heads for the door, then pauses and looks back.
“You have until tonight, Francesca.” His eyes sweep over meone last time. “Choose wisely. You are no longer the only life I can punish for your mistakes.”
The door closes behind him.
I stand there in the middle of Lorenzo’s dark living room, my hands wrapped protectively around my baby, and for the first time in a very long time, I am not numb.
I am furious. Terrified. And suddenly, perfectly clear. Because I know two things now. The first is that Lorenzo will never choose me first. The second is that my father believes that makes me weak. He’s wrong because I will do whatever it takes to protect this baby.
I lower myself carefully into one of the leather chairs and stare out the window.
Birdie.
I should hate her. Maybe part of me does. Not because she stole anything from me but because she was loved in a way I never will be.
Still, hatred is a luxury I cannot afford. Not with my father threatening my child.
My fingers shake as I reach for the phone.
Because whatever I do next—warn her, threaten her, beg her—I know one thing for certain. This is no longer about Lorenzo.
It is about survival of my child.
“Bring the car around.”
My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
One of the house staff nods and disappears without a word. No one in this house asks questions when my father is involved. They’ve all learned the same lesson I did as a child. Curiosity is only useful if you enjoy pain.
By the time I step into the car, my hands are trembling. I tuck them beneath the fold of dress and stare out the window as the city slides by. I’ve always hated it here. It’s too cold in thewinter and the summers are never long enough. But what I’ve wanted or liked has never mattered.
The car slows in front of a tall glass tower. I stare up at it through the window. He’s been this close this entire time. A sharp laugh leaves my lips. Of course.
It is sleek and expensive and modern, all clean lines and silvered glass. Nothing like Lorenzo’s dark penthouse where he keeps me among polished wood and dim rooms, as if I were part of the furniture that came with the marriage. This building gleams.
The doorman steps forward the second my driver opens my door.
“Ma’am.”
“I’m here to see Lorenzo Conti.”
He hesitates just long enough to tell me he recognizes the name but not me. That should sting less than it does.
“I’m his wife,” I say.
That gets me upstairs. The elevator is silent and fast. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks calm. Only the hand over my stomach betrays me.
When the doors open, I understand the cruelty of Lorenzo Conti in an entirely new way. The penthouse is bright. Not bright in a decorative sense. Bright in the bones of it. Sunlight spills in through floor-to-ceiling windows, pouring over pale wood floors and cream-colored furniture and glass and stone and soft, expensive textures. The entire city stretches out beyond the walls like some impossible promise.
It is beautiful in a way his house with me has never been. This place feels open. Breathing. Alive.
Loved.
