Page 98 of Beautiful Villain
I looked down at the phone in my hand like it had suddenly become something precious and dangerous all at the same time.
Gianni’s number.
Right there.
So close I could touch it.
A stupid, painful warmth bloomed behind my ribs, followed quickly by something sharper.Guilt.Doubt.That awful little voice that loved to whisper that I didn’t deserve him anymore.
I was the one who had walked away.
I was the one who had told him I never wanted to see him again.
He had tried to keep me.To protect me.And I had chosen to leave.
How fair was it to hold that line now and still want him?
How fair was it to call him after breaking him?
Not fair at all, I thought.Not even a little.
Dunn watched my face like he could see the war playing out behind my eyes.
“You don’t have to use it,” he said gently.“It’s just… there.”
I nodded.“Okay.”
He didn’t push.That was his gift.He gave people space even when everything in him wanted to close ranks around them.
Dunn walked back to his car.The engines started.One by one, the vehicles pulled away in a smooth, silent line, like a shadow slipping out of the street.
I stood there alone on the sidewalk, the phone heavy in my hand.
Gianni’s number sat inside it like a quiet dare.
I turned back to the house.
To my house.
To my empty, fragile, half-rebuilt life.
And for the first time since everything had burned down, I felt the shape of a future pressing softly against me—uncertain, terrifying, and just a little bit hopeful.
The first thingI learned about freedom was that it was loud.
Not in the way danger was loud.This was a quieter kind of noise.The tick of the clock.The hum of the refrigerator.The way my own footsteps echoed through a house that suddenly felt too big for one person.
Back to life, back to reality.
That was what I kept telling myself as I walked through the front door of my family home in Siena, dropped my bag on the floor, and stood there staring at nothing.No guards.No cameras.No velvet cages parading as bedrooms.Just old tiles, faded wallpaper, and the faint smell of lemon cleaner.
It felt wrong to be safe.
I didn’t sleep much the first night.Or the second.I lay in my old bed listening to every sound the house made, heart leaping at the scrape of a branch against a window, the groan of the pipes, the whisper of wind through the shutters.Trauma does not respect geography.It just follows you home and waits.
So I stayed busy.
I cleaned.
