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She’d even trusted that her first fiancé—the one her father had promised her to—might be kind.Fun.Someone to talk to.He’d strutted like a peacock, ogled her like a prize, and then… vanished.She suspected her father had done something to him.
Didn’t matter.The lesson had been the same: trust led only to pain.
“Yes, Mr.Romano,” she whispered, forcing her feet to keep pace with his.Better to get this over with.
“My name is Salvatore,” he corrected, his voice gruff but steady.“Most people call me Sal.”
“Sal, then,” she murmured, lifting her chin, teeth clenched.He wouldn’t see her terror.He wouldn’t see her rage.She would not cower.She would get through this.
Think about puppies.
Yes, puppies.She’d always wanted one.Or maybe a kitten.A little creature to love and cuddle.She remembered asking her father for one when she was small—before she’d learned how cruel he really was.Later, she realized an animal in her father’s house would suffer just like everything else around him.
“Cata?”
She blinked, startled, her thoughts of soft fur vanishing.She met Sal’s gaze, his dark eyes steady on hers.
“Yes?”she asked warily.
“Are you okay?”
Something in his eyes—concern, maybe?—gave her a spark of courage.
“I’m not having sex with you,” she blurted, bracing for the blow, her whole body tightening.
“Of course you’re not,” he replied instantly, his deep voice steady.Was there… amusement in it?
Her jaw dropped.She just stared at him, stunned.
“Your room,” he explained, gesturing to a doorway she hadn’t even noticed was open.
She turned—and gasped.
Lavender.The entire room was bathed in soft, elegant shades of it.Delicate sheer curtains filtered the afternoon sun, bathing the walls in a muted glow.A pale lavender comforter looked impossibly fluffy against darker purple drapes, and the furniture was sleek but warm, designed for comfort instead of intimidation.
It was everything her father’s house had never been.
“Will this room be okay?”
She stepped inside without realizing it, a soft sigh escaping her.She didn’t even notice the smile curving her lips.“It’s stunning,” she whispered.
“Good.Why don’t you settle in and then meet me downstairs for dinner?”
She spun around, staring at him.Dinner?He’d said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Settle in?”she repeated faintly, twisting her fingers together.With what?She had nothing.She hadn’t dared go back to her father’s suite to grab her suitcase.If she had, she’d be dead by now, her father laughing while his men dumped her body somewhere inconvenient.
“I’m fine,” she replied, clenching her hands tightly together so he wouldn’t see them tremble.
No, Enrico Bianchi didn’t chuckle about much.He certainly wouldn’t chuckle about having something taken from him.And he definitely considered her his possession—his property to barter, display, or discard as he pleased.That was why he’d promised her to three different men over the years.
“I had my assistant send over some clothes and…stuff for you,” Salvatore said, gesturing toward what she assumed was a closet or bathroom.
Then, with a sharp nod, he turned away.“Come downstairs when you’re changed.We’ll talk over dinner.”
Catarina watched him leave, a strange hollowness curling in her chest.She should feel relief.Relief that he hadn’t forced her, hadn’t even tried.Relief that his overwhelming presence had finally left the room.Relief that she was alone.
Instead, she felt…a loss.
