The glass shattered against the marble floor, the echo slicing through the silence like a scream. Alessia stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with the weight of a thousand emotions. The wine had spilled like blood—dark, rich, staining everything it touched.
Across the room, Lorenzo didn’t flinch. He stood by the fireplace, hands behind his back, watching her with the detached calm of a man who had seen too much to be moved by a tantrum.
“Say it again,” Alessia demanded, her voice low but shaking.
“I said,” he replied coolly, “you’re not leaving this house.”
“This prison,” she hissed. “You mean I’m not leaving this prison.”
Lorenzo finally turned, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp jawline. “Call it what you want, cara mia, but you belong to me now. You made that dec
