By midnight, the villa was silent. Emma moved like a shadow, slipping past locked doors and ornate halls, every heartbeat a drum of defiance. She reached the study, where Lorenzo kept keys to the villa, the private cars, and—unspoken—her freedom. Her fingers shook as she lifted a set of keys from the polished desk. The adrenaline coursing through her made her forget fear for a moment.
"I can't stay here," she whispered to herself. "Not like this."
A sleek black car waited at the villa gate, engine humming softly. Emma slid in, heart hammering, and took off down the winding coastal road. For the first time in days, the wind hit her face, carrying the briny scent of the Mediterranean. Freedom—temporary, fragile, but hers.
But freedom had its price.
Lorenzo had already discovered her absence. His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, narrowed the moment he realized she was gone. Calm, cold, dangerous—he moved like a predator, tracking her through every road, every alley, every possible escape route.
Emma didn't know where she was going—Venice, Florence, anywhere—but she felt alive for the first time since the accident. And yet, a strange pull tugged at her chest: fear, yes, but also something she couldn't name. Concern? Connection?
A sharp horn behind her made her swerve. Lorenzo's car appeared in her rearview, impossibly close, silent, relentless.
"You can't run," he said, voice low but carrying over the wind. She could feel it wrap around her, constricting, intoxicating.
"I don't care!" she shouted, gripping the wheel tighter. "I won't be locked up! I won't… I won't live like this!"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Every movement, every precise turn of his car mirrored hers. He was there—not to punish, but to protect. To keep her safe, whether she understood it yet or not.
The roads narrowed as she entered a small Venetian alley, centuries-old buildings closing in around her. She thought she might finally lose him…
But Lorenzo anticipated every turn. His car slid silently into position, cutting off the alley. Emma slammed the brakes, heart hammering.
He stepped out, leaning casually against the hood, dark coat brushing the cobblestones. His gaze was impossible to read—angry, concerned, and… yearning.
"Emma," he said simply. "You think you can escape me? Escape what I swore to protect you from?"
"I'm not a child!" she shot back. "I can protect myself!"
A tense silence followed. Then, almost imperceptibly, Lorenzo's lips curved. "I know you can," he admitted, voice low, almost a growl. "But I cannot risk you. Not now. Not ever."
Emma's breath caught. Something in the way he said it—the possessive, protective weight—made her pulse spike. Frustration warred with desire, anger with the faint stirrings of old feelings she couldn't fully recall.
For a long moment, they stood in the moonlit alley, two opposites: fire and shadow, freedom and obsession, enemy and lover, bound by a past she barely remembered and a present she couldn't escape.
Finally, Lorenzo reached out, not to grab, not to cage—but to brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch was electric, intimate, a spark against the tension.
"Come back," he murmured. "You're safer with me. You're… mine."
Emma's hands clenched the steering wheel. Her mind screamed independence, her heart whispered surrender. And in that instant, the villa, the moonlit road, and the crashing waves below seemed insignificant compared to the pull of him.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't didn't drive away