Page 31

Or… it could also be a perfect spot to make love. With someone I care about—someone who doesn’t hurt and insults me at every turn. I instinctively touch the place on my arm where he grabbed me yesterday after I tried to run. It’s bruised and tender.

But I refuse to let sadness take over. I continue walking around the room.

A sleek, modern desk catches my eye in one corner, with a few papers scattered across its surface. A luxurious liquor cabinet stands near the wall, filled with expensive bottles of whiskey, vodka, and wine—all top-shelf selections.

My gaze drifts to a small drawer built into the desk. It’s locked.

Though I know I’m alone, I glance around the room and then move toward the desk.

I crouch down, running my fingers along the edges. What could be inside? Something important? Something that could help my brother? A chance to escape this marriage and win his respect?

Or perhaps something I could use against Nicolas—an opportunity to gain control over him?

The possibilities swirl in my mind, making me frantic. I start fiddling with the lock, determined to get inside.

I’m still struggling when a sharp knock on the door startles me. My heart leaps, and I quickly straighten, pressing a hand against my chest to steady myself.

“Mrs. Paolo?” a voice calls from the other side of the door.

Mrs. Paolo. That’s me.

I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the plush bathrobe, and approach the door.

I open it slightly, just enough to peek through. A young woman stands on the other side. She’s petite, with blonde hair neatly pulled into a tidy bun and a friendly smile. She looks like she could be a flight attendant.

“My name is Mary, and I’m your assistant for the day.”

“H… hi, Mary,” I respond hesitantly

“Your clothes have arrived,” she says, holding out a clipboard as if this is a normal delivery.

“Clothes?” I echo, furrowing my brows in confusion.

“Yes, ma’am. They’re being brought in now.”

I open the door wider and glance down the hallway. Two massive men, their muscles bulging beneath dark suits, carry designer boxes and bags toward the room. They don’t speak. They just stand there, their eyes fixed on me.

“Can they come in, Mrs. Paolo?” Mary asks gently

“Uhm, yes. Yes, they can,” I say hurriedly, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I step back to make room for them to enter.

The men march in, placing the boxes on the bed and the floor. They return quickly with more until their sheer number nearly overwhelms the room.

“Should we take these to your closet?” Mary asks politely. “Or would you like to inspect them first?”

“Closet, please.”

Mary directs them to a walk-in closet I hadn’t even noticed before. One side is filled with suits and other clearly masculine items—Nicolas’s, no doubt. The other side remains empty.

They begin unpacking the boxes, carefully hanging dresses and blouses. Shoes—mostly heels—are lined up neatly on the shelves. Each item looks more expensive than the last.

As they work, I cross my arms and ask, “Did Marco send these?”

One of the men pauses, his expression briefly shifting to confusion. “No, ma’am. Your husband did.”

The word feels strange, foreign, as if it belongs to someone else. My chest tightens at the thought.

Does that mean he was also responsible for the things in the bathroom cabinet? How did he know what I used?