Page 20 of Freed
Dante exhales slowly, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone, sliding it across the table toward me. The screen is already lit.
I freeze.
Lorenzo Conti Marries Francesca Marino in Lavish Wedding.
The words blur for a second, like my eyes are refusing to cooperate. My chest tightens, breath catching halfway in. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to see it. But my thumb moves anyway.
I scroll.
And with every image—the cathedral, the snow-dusted steps, the crowd of powerful men and smiling women—something inside me breaks. Maybe it’s because it’s the same church where Sienna’s funeral was held. Or maybe it’s because my worst fear is true. That Lorenzo didn’t love me. He simply wanted to control me.
“Well,” I say. “Good for them.”
Dante asks, “Are you okay?”
“No. But I will be.” I take a step away from them. “I think I’ll take a nap before the dinner rush starts.”
They don’t try to stop me, though I get the feeling Dante has plenty to say. In the safety of my small room, I let my tears fall. Of course Lorenzo moved on. Why wouldn’t he? I was only ever a toy to him.
I’m deep in my misery when there’s a knock on the door.
I don’t answer. I can’t. If I open my mouth, I might fall apart completely.
The door opens anyway.
Dante steps inside, closing it quietly behind him like he’s trying not to startle me.
“Are you okay?”
A broken laugh slips out of me as I swipe at my cheeks. “What do you think?”
“Touché.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, giving me space while still beingthere. It’s something I’ve come to realize he’s very good at.
“I know it may not feel like it,” he says after a moment, “but this is a good thing. Now that he’s married, he’ll stop looking for you.”
I let out a hollow breath, shaking my head. “If you believe that, then you’re a fool.”
His brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I meet his gaze, steady despite the storm inside me. “He’s the type of man who wants to have his cake and eat it, too.”
Dante tips his head, conceding the point. “Perhaps.”
“You’re seriously trying to tell me,” I press, my voice tightening, “that if there was someone out there you loved… you’d just stop looking for them?”
My breath catches.
“Unless,” I whisper, “you think he didn’t love me.”
Dante moves closer, his presence grounding without being overwhelming. “Breathe,Juliette.”
The name hits like a splash of cold water.
Not Birdie. Not Miss Miller. Not the girl Lorenzo knew.
Juliette. The woman who survives.
