Chapter 5 - The Heir’s Shadow
The interior of the Vitali estate was even more intimidating than its exterior. High vaulted ceilings, dark mahogany paneling, and priceless oil paintings lined the massive hallways, smelling faintly of old polish, cedar, and expensive perfume.
The housekeeper—a stern-looking woman named Mrs. Gable who moved with the silent efficiency of a ghost—led me up a sweeping curved staircase to a suite of rooms on the second floor that were larger than my entire apartment back in the city.
A king-sized bed draped in crisp white linens faced a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, churning expanse of Lake Michigan. A roaring fire crackled in a marble fireplace, casting dancing amber shadows across the Persian rugs.
“Mr. Vitali’s private study is down the hall,” Mrs. Gable informed me stiffly, setting a tray of hot tea and crackers on the bedside table. “Dinner will be served at eight. A wardrobe of maternity and casual wear has already been placed in the walk-in closet. If you need anything, press the intercom button by the bed.”
“I need to use a phone,” I said, turning to face her with as much authority as I could muster. “A real phone. To make a call outside this house.”
Mrs. Gable paused by the double doors, her expression entirely neutral. “Mr. Vitali’s orders are clear, Miss Collins. You are free to move about the estate, the gardens, and the library. However, all external communications are restricted until further notice. Have a pleasant evening.”
The heavy oak doors clicked shut, locking from the outside with a sickening, definitive thud.
I stood in the center of the luxurious bedroom, the roaring fire suddenly feeling less like warmth and more like the breath of a dragon.
I walked over to the windows, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. Down below, patrol cars made slow, methodical loops around the perimeter fence, their headlights cutting beams through the dark falling snow. There was no way out. No bus lines, no friendly neighbors, no anonymous alleys to slip into. I was locked inside a fortress carved out of old money and blood.
Hours ticked by. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight times, its deep, resonant gongs echoing through the cavernous quiet of the second floor.
I hadn't touched the tea. I hadn't changed into any of the expensive clothes in the closet. I sat cross-legged on the edge of the massive bed, clutching a throw pillow to my chest like a shield.
The heavy doors unlatched.
Alessandro walked in. He had removed his overcoat and suit jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal strong, tanned forearms. He looked tired, the hard lines around his amber eyes softened by the firelight.
“You didn't eat,” he noted, his gaze falling on the untouched tray by the bed.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, my voice flat and defiant.
Alessandro crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet away. He didn't try to touch me. He stood there with his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, studying me with an intensity that made my skin itch.
“You’re angry,” he observed.
“Angry?” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s a mild word for what I feel, Alessandro. You kidnapped me. You locked me in a gilded cage. You’ve treated me like a prize mare you bought at an auction just because of what’s growing inside my body!”
“You are carrying my heir,” he corrected quietly, stepping closer. “In my world, that makes you the most important person on this continent. You are safe here. No one will ever touch you. No one will ever threaten you.”
“And what happens when the baby is born?” I demanded, tears finally spilling over my lashes, hot and angry. “Do you keep me here forever as a prisoner? Do you take the child away and lock me in a tower? What kind of life is this?”
Alessandro stopped directly in front of me. He reached out, his warm fingers gently catching my chin, forcing me to look up into his face. There was no cruelty in his eyes now—only a deep, terrifying resolve.
“When the child is born,” Alessandro whispered, his thumb wiping away a tear from my cheek, “you will have a choice.”
May you like
“A choice?” I scoffed through my sobs. “What kind of choice could I possibly have with you?”
“You can stay here by my side as my wife,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a promise that made my breath hitch in my throat. “Or you can try to walk away—and find out whether my guards are faster than your legs.”
