Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Viviana

The weight of the pregnancy presses on me like a storm cloud, suffocating and relentless.

I sit at the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My features are pale, drawn with exhaustion. My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, and I snatch it away, disgusted by the instinctive gesture.

There’s life growing inside me. Romeo’s life.

My breaths come shallow and fast, panic threatening to overtake me. The reality of it is inescapable now. It’s not just my life trapped in this cage—it’s this child’s too. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

The door to my room is closed, the lock not visible but implicit. The guards outside ensure that every movement I make is monitored.

There’s no true freedom here, just the illusion of it when Romeo decides I’ve been good enough to deserve a stroll around the penthouse.

I push away from the bed and start pacing, the energy building in my chest too overwhelming to sit still. My thoughts race as I replay the doctor’s words.

You’re pregnant. The clinical tone of her voice felt so detached, so sterile. For me, those words changed everything.

I can’t stay here. I can’t raise a child in this prison.

Escape. It’s the only solution.

I glance at the small desk in the corner, where a stack of books and a few writing supplies sit neatly. My fingers itch as an idea forms. There’s one card I haven’t played yet.

Francesca.

She’s one of the few people I trust, a long-term friend. Francesca is sharp, resourceful, and fiercely loyal. If anyone can help me, it’s her.

The thought of reaching out fills me with hope, but the logistics are daunting. Every move I make is scrutinized. Romeo’s guards lurk in the hallways, their eyes always on me, their silence more oppressive than words.

Still, I could try.

I’d have to steal a phone since mine won’t make outgoing calls. I ponder lifting one off the guards. They usually keep them in their back pockets, or holsters on their hips, I’ve noticed.

I’d have to call the gallery she was working at and get her number, but I think they would give it to me if I pretended I was a client.

My heart is racing as I glance toward the door. What’s my next step?

I should go look around and see if there’s a phone I can get my hands on.

As my hand reaches for the doorknob, it swings open abruptly, revealing one of Romeo’s guards.

“Where are you going?” His voice is calm but firm.

“To the library,” I say quickly, clutching my heart. “I want to grab something to read.”

He doesn’t move, blocking the doorway with his broad frame. “Mr. Valenti instructed us to keep you in your room until further notice.”

My stomach twists. Of course he did. He’s tightening his grip even more.

“Why?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended. “I haven’t done anything. I just want to get a book.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Orders are orders.”

I glare at him, my frustration bubbling over. “So I’m a prisoner now. I’m not even allowed to walk around this ridiculous gilded cage?”

The guard remains silent, his face impassive.

“Fine,” I mutter, spinning on my heel and retreating to the bed. “Tell Romeo I’m perfectly happy to sit here and rot, since that seems to be his plan.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline from the confrontation leaving me weak.

I pull the note from my pocket, staring at it as if it holds the answers I need. Every move I make is watched. Every step I take is controlled.

I glance toward the window, the view of the city taunting me with its freedom. Somewhere out there, Francesca is living her life, free from the chains that bind me.

My hand drifts to my stomach again, and this time, I don’t pull it away. A fierce protectiveness wells up inside me, stronger than the fear, stronger than the anger.

For myself. For this baby.

I will find a way out. I have to.

I fold the note carefully and tuck it back into my pocket, my mind churning with possibilities. The guards can’t watch me forever. Romeo’s arrogance will be his downfall. He thinks he has me under control, but he underestimates me.

That will be his mistake.

The note feels heavier in my pocket with every passing second, its presence a reminder of my desperation. I glance toward the window again, the skyline mocking me with its unattainable freedom.

Francesca is out there, somewhere. But the longer I sit, the more impossible my plan becomes.

The guards outside my door will never let me pass without raising suspicion, and even if I managed to slip the note into Enzo’s sketches, there’s no guarantee it would reach her. Romeo’s control extends beyond these walls; his web is vast, and his paranoia unyielding.

He’d find out. He always does.

I sigh and press my hands to my temples, the frustration mounting to a breaking point. I can’t afford a mistake—not with so much at stake.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the door swings open again. Romeo steps inside, his dark eyes sweeping the room. His presence, as always, feels suffocating, filling the space with an energy that makes my skin prickle.

“Should I ask why you look like you’re plotting something?” he says, his tone casual but laced with a warning.

I glare at him, my hand instinctively tightening over the pocket where the note is hidden. “I don’t need to plot anything,” I snap. “I have nowhere to go, remember?”

He smirks, crossing the room in measured strides. “Good. At least you’re aware of your limitations.”

The condescension in his voice grates against my nerves, and I stand abruptly, the frustration boiling over. “Is this what you wanted, Romeo, to lock me up and strip me of everything? To make sure I can’t even breathe without you knowing about it?”

His smirk falters slightly, but his composure remains intact. “What I want, Viviana, is for you to be safe.”

“Safe?” I laugh bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. “This isn’t safety, it’s control. You don’t care about me. You care about owning me. My body, my choices—they’re all just part of your game.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes—something I can’t quite place. Vulnerability? Guilt? It’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You’re wrong,” he says quietly, his voice losing some of its usual sharpness. “This isn’t a game to me.”

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “Sure. What do you call keeping someone trapped like this, watching their every move?”

He steps closer, his gaze dark. “It’s survival,” he says, his voice low. “You think I’m doing this for fun? That I enjoy seeing you like this? If I let you go, you’ll be dead before you take two steps outside this building.”

I falter, his words hitting hard. The rawness in his tone, the tension in his jaw—it’s unsettling. For the first time, I sense something beyond the arrogance and control. Something real.

It doesn’t change anything.

“You’re so convinced that you know what’s best for me,” I say, my voice quieter but still sharp. “You have this need to control everything. Including me.”

His silence is deafening, his expression hardening again as the vulnerability disappears. “Believe what you want, Viviana,” he says finally, his tone colder now. “It doesn’t change the fact you’re alive because of me. Don’t forget that.”

He turns and leaves without another word, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. I stand there, my heart pounding, the conversation replaying in my mind.

What was that? For a moment, I thought I saw something human in him, something almost...broken. Romeo doesn’t do broken. He’s too consumed by power, by control. Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. He’s still the man who’s keeping me here, and I can’t let myself forget that.

I sink back onto the bed, my thoughts swirling. My hand instinctively goes to my pocket again, checking for the note. It’s still there, a crumpled reminder of my futile attempt to reach out. My other hand reaches for the small disposable phone on the nightstand, a habit I’ve developed even though it only accepts calls from Romeo.

The phone isn’t there.

My chest tightens as I glance around, searching the nightstand and the surrounding area. It’s always there—always. Panic sets in as I check the drawers, the space beneath the bed, even the shelves across the room. The phone is gone.

He took it.

Of course, he did. I should’ve seen this coming. My outburst, my defiance—it was enough to make him tighten his grip even further. I clench my fists, anger and fear coursing through me in equal measure. Without the phone, I’m completely cut off. No way to contact anyone. No way to escape.

Romeo’s control isn’t just physical—it’s absolute. Now, more than ever, I feel the weight of it.

My chest tightens as the reality of my situation sinks in, and panic begins to claw its way to the surface. I can’t do this. I can’t stay trapped like this.

I pace the room, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as my breathing grows shallow.

I grab the nearest object—a book from the nightstand—and hurl it across the room. It smashes against the wall with a dull thud, pages scattering like broken promises.

The sight only fuels my frustration. My hands find the vase on the desk next, and it shatters against the floor in a spray of ceramic and water, the wilted flowers limp among the wreckage.

I don’t stop. I can’t. My rage has nowhere else to go.

“Damn him!” I scream, my voice cracking as tears blur my vision. I swipe my arm across the desk, knocking over a stack of books and a lamp that crash to the floor with a sharp crack.

I stand there, panting, my chest heaving as I stare at the chaos I’ve created. But it doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t bring back the phone, doesn’t loosen Romeo’s hold.

The door swings open, and I whip around to see one of his guards standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement.

“Stop this now,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “Mr. Valenti won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”

“Tell him to come here and say that to my face!” I snap, tears streaming down my cheeks as I glare at him.

The guard steps inside, his presence as suffocating as Romeo’s. “Clean this up and calm yourself, or I’ll have to intervene.”

“Intervene?” I laugh bitterly, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. “What are you going to do, throw me into a smaller cage?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

“You’re all the same,” I continue, my voice trembling with rage. “His puppets, doing his bidding without question. You think this makes you strong? It makes you pathetic.”

The guard steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’d do well to stop talking now.”

I want to scream at him, to throw another insult, but the weight of exhaustion pulls at me. My defiance burns low, replaced by a heavy, aching despair.

I slump onto the bed, my head in my hands, refusing to look at him. “Just leave,” I whisper hoarsely.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods and steps back, the door clicking shut behind him.