Page 144 of I'm sorry, Princess

“My favorite,” Nicolas says, still chuckling, “was your father yelling at me, not because you ate the cookies, but because I didn’t know where you were fast enough. That’s when I started putting trackers in all your shoes.” The table erupts in laughter.

“I love your family,” Serena whispers to me, kissing me softly. My mother watches, her face soft, and Nicolas reaches for her hand.

We finish dinner and help clean, ignoring my mother’s protests. It’s late, and we say our goodbyes now since we leave before dawn. Serena hugs them both, promising to visit again and even cook for them next time. Nicolas gets a hug from me and a thank-you for looking after my mother.

Then my mother pulls me into her arms, holding me tightly. “I love you so much. Thank you for coming.” Her voice trembles. She glances at Serena, her eyes soft. “I love her,” she says quietly. Then she leans close to me, her lips near my ear.

“Tuo padre non ha avuto un infarto.”

The world tilts. My breath stops. I fucking knew it. Hearing it confirmed is a knife to the ribs.

She’s crying when I pull back.

“I know,” I say. It’s all I can manage.

But inside, one thought pounds over and over, I will find out what happened. And when I do, someone’s going to pay in blood.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Serena

This trip had been a dream. Florence wasn’t just about art, history, and breathtaking views, it was where I learned the layers of Lorenzo I never thought I’d see. Where I saw the man who can command a room kneel down to feed swans in the garden with me. Where he let me in, completely. Where he told me he loved me.

God. He loves me. And I love him.

But now… my gaze is locked on the marriage contract lying on the coffee table like it’s mocking me. A thick, cold weight in my chest tightens every time I look at it. My father promised we’d “discuss my terms” today, meaning I told him I would never sign it, and he told me he would “handle” my resistance.

It’s been two days since we landed back in New York. Two days of trying to slip back into normal life if you cancall this normal. I’ve moved most of my clothes and essentials into Lorenzo’s house, though I keep telling myself I haven’t fully moved in. Truth is, it already feels like home. Bianca’s warm smile when she brings out breakfast. Milkshake and Pancake leaping on me every time I walk through the door. Even the evening walks with Lorenzo feel like we’re some old married couple.

I’ve even… made progress with Andres. He still glares, still grumbles, but I think I’ve earned something that might pass for tolerance.

Everything should feel perfect.

But it doesn’t. Not with that contract sitting there. Not with my father’s voice still lingering in the back of my mind.

A sharp knock slices through my thoughts. My stomach sinks.

I know exactly who it is.

When I open the door, the coldness hits me before the winter air does. My father’s face is stone, no warmth, no pretense. My mother stands beside him, lips curved in something that technically counts as a smile but feels like a knife edge. The kind of smile that warns you not to get too comfortable.

“Father,” I manage, then turn to her. “Mother.”

They don’t greet me. They don’t even look at me, just step inside like they own the air I’m breathing. Which, to them, I suppose they do.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s really important for me to clarify this.”

My father sits without a word. His eyes are cold enough to freeze water. He tosses an envelope onto the table, the sound sharp in the silence.

“Look inside,” he says, voice flat and lethal. “Then I’ll do the talking.”

I hesitate, then slide the photos out. My breath catches.

Pictures. Dozens of them. Me and Lorenzo at the Moretti Anniversary party. At the airport. In Florence. Kissing. Laughing. Holding hands. Him wrapping his arms around me like the world doesn’t exist. Every single moment captured and stripped bare for them to see.

I feel my stomach twist, sick, violated. I knew our relationship wasn’t exactly a secret, but this… this is surveillance. This is a message: We see you. We own you.

“Since when did my daughter become a criminal’s whore?” my father says, his voice a blade, slicing clean through me.