Irresistible Distance

Chapter Two: The Girl She Used to Be

Sleep wasn’t coming.

The silence in the penthouse was heavy and thick, like the room itself was holding its breath. Valentina lay on the very edge of the king-sized bed, her body stiff, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The chandelier above caught the distant glow from the city, scattering soft light across the white surface.

She hadn't gone near the center of the bed.

She hadn’t gone near the sheets. A maid had changed them earlier while Valentina locked herself in the bathroom, turning the faucet on full blast just so she wouldn't have to hear the rustle of the linens or think about what was being wiped away.

Now, the bed looked untouched again white, wide, and cold. She sat at the edge like she wasn't sure she was allowed to be there.

The silence was the kind that money bought. No voices from neighboring rooms, no muffled traffic, no pipes creaking in the walls. Just the faint hum of the air conditioner and the far-off murmur of a city fifty floors below, moving on as if she didn't exist. She pressed her palms flat against the mattress and stared upward, letting the quiet pull at her thoughts.

And the ceiling, as it always does at 3:00 a.m., gave her back everything she was trying to forget.

Three days ago, Valentina had been someone else. She hadn't been an important name in a social register; she was just a girl with tired feet, ink stains on her fingers, and a sketchbook full of dress designs that no one ever asked to see.

She had been walking home from her internship at a fashion house in the garment district a place that paid its interns in "experience" and empty promises instead of a paycheck.

Her phone had buzzed in her pocket. A text from the housekeeper: Your father wants you home immediately.

She had stood outside the Tube station and read it twice, the autumn wind cutting through her thin jacket. Her first thought was annoyance. Her second was that cold, familiar dread she always felt when Salvatore called.

Even after eighteen years in his house, she never thought of him as a father. That word belonged to someone else: Marco Marchese, the man she had lost eighteen years ago.

She had been five when her father died in a car accident on a rainy Tuesday in November. She didn’t understand it then only that something had broken in the air of the house and never fixed itself again.

What she remembered came in pieces. Grey skies pressed low. The sound of rain hitting metal. The knock at the door that made her mother freeze before she even opened it. Men in uniform standing too still in the doorway. Her mother collapsing into a sound she had never heard before.

And after that, the absence something no one explained properly, but everyone acted like she was supposed to understand.

Elena hadn’t cried. She had looked... annoyed. At the time, Valentina was too young to put a name to the expression. Now, she understood perfectly: Elena had looked inconvenienced.

Elena Marchese was a woman who had learned the art of using her beauty to open doors and secure comfort. She had loved Marco for what he provided the house, the name, the status.

When he died, her love simply evaporated, shifting elsewhere as easily as a shadow because grief never fully took root. Within 2 months, she was seeing Salvatore Greco. Within a year, she was his wife and already had child.

Salvatore wasn't a man who shouted or drank or left bruises. His cruelty was quieter. It was a steady, icy pressure that settled into the foundation of the house, wearing everyone down until they stopped expecting warmth altogether.

Then there was Christy, his daughter from his first marriage. She was beautiful, manipulative, and had moved into the house acting as if she were the rightful owner and Valentina was the guest. She had Salvatore’s sharp eyes and her mother’s talent for spotting weakness. Then, there was Ethan the son her half brother, the heir, the child who was handed everything without ever having to ask.

Valentina had existed on the periphery of their lives. She wasn’t abused in any way a neighbor would notice; she was simply overlooked. Fed, clothed, schooled, and ignored. Salvatore paid her tuition like a bill he couldn't avoid, and her mother smiled at her during dinner only to forget she existed the moment the plates were cleared.

She had tried to build her own future. She kept a secret savings account, hoarding every spare cent from her shifts. She wanted fashion school the way some people needed air.

Then Salvatore made his offer.

"I can pay for the best fashion school in Europe," he had told her. Back then, she was still foolish enough to believe him. Now she knew that nothing Salvatore gave came without a price.

And there was Enzo. Her first boyfriend. He had been proof that she could mean something to someone. Then, one evening, she came home early and found Christy in his bed.

When she went to her mother, Elena hadn't even looked up from her phone. "Let it go, Valentina. Christy is family. Men come and go."

When she went to Salvatore, he hadn't cared either. "Christy is happy," he’d said. "Stop making yourself difficult."

That was the day something inside her hardened. She began planning her escape, desperate to get out before her stepfather could trap her completely. She had been four months away. Eight hundred dollars short.

Then came the night in the study. Salvatore had sat behind his desk with a glass of whiskey, telling her about his debt to Dante Rossetti. About the arrangement.

"Dante wants you," he’d said.

"Ask Christy," Valentina had countered, her voice trembling. "She’s your real daughter."

Salvatore hadn't even looked up. "Christy is not what is being offered."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

When she had looked to her mother for help, Elena had only offered a cold, empty smile. "Every woman in Milan would beg for Dante Rossetti’s attention. You should be grateful."

"He’s a monster."

"He’s powerful," Salvatore had cut in. "That means protection. And we need that connection."

He had given her the choice: go to him, or he would let someone else settle the debt. She knew he wasn't bluffing. She sat there, staring at her sketchbook, calculating the eight hundred dollars she still lacked, realizing that freedom was slipping through her fingers.

She had nodded.

The memory faded, leaving Valentina staring at the dark ceiling, her eyes stinging. She refused to cry.

Eventually, as exhaustion began to pull at her, she heard it.

A sound from downstairs. Low voices.

She froze, holding her breath. Then, she heard the unmistakable sound of a woman’s voice soft, intimate. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. Every logical part of her told her to stay in bed, but curiosity and hurt pushed her toward the door.

She crept down the staircase, each step feeling loud in the vast, quiet house. The sounds grew clearer: a woman’s voice, a soft laugh. When she reached the bottom, she pressed herself against the wall near the hallway, peering into the room.

She stopped breathing entirely.