CHAPTER 4
1274 Words
Antonio POV
I hated when my house sounded too quiet. Silence had a way of digging into my thoughts, pulling things out I had spent years burying.
I walked down the hallway after leaving Kylie in her room. My mind was not calm. Her face kept returning in front of me. The way her voice trembled when she said thank you. The way she looked at me when I told her she was safe.
Safe.
I had not planned to say that.
I had not planned any of this.
I should not have brought her here. I should have walked out of the bakery and left her where she was. That is what I always did. I did not pick up strays. I did not rescue people. I did not attach myself to anyone.
But I had seen her eyes when that woman slapped her. Eyes that did not break even when her voice did. Eyes that still held fire. Eyes that reminded me of a version of myself I could barely remember.
Maybe that was why I did it.
Maybe I was the one who needed saving.
I walked into my office and poured myself a drink. I did not sit. I could not. My head was still full of her. Her small hands. Her tired smile. The way her breath caught when I touched her chin.
I had nearly kissed her.
I had wanted to.
More than I should have.
I took a slow sip, trying to clear the heat in my chest.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I did not look.
“Bianca,” I said.
She stopped at the door. “You are still angry.”
I turned then. “You came into my house uninvited. And you spoke to her.” My voice lowered. “So yes. I am angry.”
She studied me. Her eyes were always sharp. Calculating.
“She will not last here,” Bianca said.
“You do not know her.”
“I know you,” she replied. “And I know how this ends. It always ends the same. You bring someone in. You get bored. You send them away.”
I clenched my jaw. “You think I am incapable of anything else.”
She walked closer. “I think you are who you are. You do not have room for soft things.”
Kylie flashed in my mind again.
Soft.
But also unbreakable.
“You can leave now,” I said.
Bianca held my gaze for a few seconds. Then she left without another word.
The silence returned.
Except now my chest felt heavier.
I finished my drink and set the glass down. I needed to check on Kylie. Not because I did not trust her. But because something about that last look in her eyes had felt off.
I walked back to her room quietly. The hallway lights were dim, night settling into the house. I reached the door and stopped when I heard voices from inside.
Kylie. And someone else.
My jaw tensed.
I pushed the door open.
She was there. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Another woman stood across from her. House staff. Lina. Quiet. Efficient. Someone I trusted to manage the household. But right now, her eyes held something cold.
Kylie looked pale.
“What is going on here?” I asked.
Lina straightened. “I was only welcoming her.”
“That did not look like a welcome.”
Lina hesitated. “I thought she should know what kind of place this is. So she does not misunderstand her role.”
My gaze sharpened. “Her role is defined by me. Not you.”
Lina’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”
She lowered her head and walked past me, leaving the room. The door clicked behind her.
I turned to Kylie.
She was holding her hands in her lap, fingers twisted together. Her breathing was uneven.
“What did she say to you?” I asked.
Kylie shook her head. “It is fine.”
“It is not.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. There was no anger. Just confusion. Fear trying not to show itself.
“She said I am not the first girl you have brought here,” Kylie whispered.
I felt something inside me go still.
Ah.
That.
I stepped inside fully and closed the door. Kylie watched me, waiting for an explanation I was not sure how to give.
“There were other people before,” I said. “None of them were like you.”
Her breath hitched. “But you saved them too.”
I sat on the chair near the window. I did not touch her. I did not want to make this heavier than it already was.
“I helped them,” I said slowly. “Financially. Temporarily. That is all.”
“So I am temporary too?” she asked.
Her voice was careful. Soft. It hurt more than if she had shouted.
“I do not know what you are yet,” I answered. And that was the truth.
Her eyes lowered. The light in them dimmed just a little.
I hated it.
I stood and moved closer.
“Kylie,” I said. “Look at me.”
She did.
Her eyes were not weak. They were wounded. There was a difference.
“I did not bring you here to own you,” I said. “I brought you here to give you space to breathe.”
She swallowed. “But you do not do love.”
I felt the words hit something deep inside me.
“No,” I said. “I do not.”
She nodded slowly.
And something shattered quietly between us.
I did not know what I wanted to do then. Touch her. Hold her. Pull her against me and erase every piece of fear in her eyes.
But wanting something had never been the same as deserving it.
I took a step back.
“Dinner is still at eight,” I said.
She nodded. “Okay.”
I left the room before I could say or do something I could not undo.
________________________________________
Dinner felt strange. Quiet. She sat across from me, her eyes lowered to her plate. She barely ate. I hated that I could not reach her. I hated that I did not know how.
After dinner, she excused herself. I watched her walk up the stairs. Slow. Thoughtful. Alone.
The loneliness in her steps made something in my chest tighten painfully.
Hours passed.
The house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
I went to my room. I showered. I tried to sleep. I could not.
I kept thinking about her sitting on that bed while someone told her she was replaceable.
I stood.
I walked to her room again.
I knocked once. Softly.
No answer.
I opened the door.
The bed was empty.
The room was empty.
Her suitcase was gone.
My heart stopped.
She had left.
She had walked out into the night. This city. Alone.
Because of me.
Because I could not say what she needed to hear.
Because I did not know how to hold something delicate without breaking it.
Cold fear spread through my chest.
Not panic.
Something worse.
Loss.
Real loss.
I stepped back into the hall and shouted down the stairs.
“Find her. Now.”
The entire house came alive with movement.
And I stood there, breathing hard.
Knowing something with a clarity that felt like being struck:
I should never have let her walk away.
But I had.
And I was going to get her back.
No matter what.
- Writer
