POV: Carmen
Vincent Rossi’s estate is quiet in a way that feels deliberate. Not peaceful. Not welcoming. Controlled.
The gates close behind my car with a muted clang that echoes too long in my chest, and for a brief moment I consider turning around. Pride keeps my hands steady on the wheel. Survival keeps me moving forward. I park where the guard indicates and step out, the gravel crunching under my shoes like a warning.
Vincent doesn’t come to greet me. Of course he doesn’t.
A staff member leads me through halls that feel colder than they should, the air crisp, the décor severe. No warmth. No excess. Everything here exists because Vincent decided it should. Power without ornament.
He’s waiting in the sitting room, leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“So,” he says, not bothering with pleasantries. “You finally needed something.”
I lift my chin. “I didn’t come to beg.”
“No,” he replies calmly. “You came because you had nowhere else to go.”
The truth stings because it’s accurate.
“I came because you owe me,” I say evenly.
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “That old debt.”
“You said yourself,” I remind him, “that when the time came, you’d repay it.”
“And you chose now,” he says. “Convenient.”
“I chose now because my husband stopped listening,” I reply. “And because I won’t stay somewhere I’m treated like an enemy.”
Vincent studies me for a long moment, his gaze sharp and appraising. “You always did have a dramatic way of leaving.”
“I’m not here for commentary.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re here to disappear.”
I don’t deny it.
He gestures toward the sofa. “Sit. You can stay. For now.”
“Just like that?”
“You’re not safe anywhere else,” he says bluntly. “And I don’t collect debts without interest.”
I sit, my body finally registering the exhaustion I’ve been ignoring for days. “You’re still an enemy of Marco’s.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still helping me.”
“Yes.”
I glance at him. “Why?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Because you once saved me from a mistake that would’ve cost me everything.”
“You never said thank you.”
“I’m saying it now,” he replies. “In my way.”
Days pass quietly after that.
Vincent keeps his distance, cold and curt, but he makes sure I have everything I need. Security tightens subtly around the estate. No calls are put through without my approval. No messages forwarded. I am effectively erased from the world I just left.
It’s unsettling.
It’s also necessary.
At night, when the estate finally settles into silence, my thoughts turn inward. I sit by the window, one hand resting against my stomach, feeling nothing and everything all at once.
I’m pregnant.
The reality still feels unreal, like a secret my body knows but my mind hasn’t fully caught up to. I imagine telling Marco in another life. A better one. I imagine his hands on my waist, his voice low and incredulous.
Instead, I’m here. Hiding. Protecting.
Choosing my child over a man who chose doubt over me.
The thought hurts more than I expect.
On the third night, I dream of water.
Not the sea. Not waves. A fountain.
I wake with the memory sharp and insistent, my chest tight with nostalgia I didn’t ask for.
I’m sixteen again, standing in a city square at night, the fountain lit by yellow streetlamps. Marco stands beside me, younger, reckless, his grin too wide for someone who hasn’t yet learned consequences.
“You won’t,” he says.
“I will,” I reply.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Afraid?” I tease.
He scoffs. “Of what?”
“Of losing,” I say.
I step closer to the fountain, water splashing softly behind me. “First one in wins.”
“You’re insane.”
“Scared,” I correct.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then he grins and kicks off his shoes. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
He jumps.
Water explodes upward, laughter bursting from him as he surfaces, hair plastered to his face. I laugh too, shocked and delighted, until his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I didn’t agree to—”
He pulls.
I fall in with a shriek, cold water stealing my breath as we surface together, soaked and breathless and unstoppable. We laugh until our sides ache, clinging to each other in the middle of that fountain like the world doesn’t exist beyond the splash of water and the promise in his eyes.
We were fearless then.
We were stupid.
We were certain.
The memory fades slowly, leaving behind a hollow ache.
I sit up in bed, tears slipping down my cheeks before I can stop them. How did we go from that—reckless and laughing—to accusations and silence?
How did love turn into suspicion?
A knock sounds at the door an hour later.
Vincent stands there, holding a cup of coffee. “You looked like you needed this.”
I take it wordlessly.
He lingers for a moment. “You’re thinking about him.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” Vincent says flatly.
“That doesn’t stop it,” I reply.
He nods once. “Rest. You’re not leaving here until I say you’re safe.”
“And when will that be?”
“When the world forgets you,” he says. “Or when it becomes too dangerous to stay hidden.”
I close the door after he leaves and press my forehead against the wood.
I never imagined this future.
A child growing inside me. A husband turned stranger. An enemy offering sanctuary.
I don’t know what comes next.
But I know this much with terrifying clarity.
I won’t let my child grow up watching love turn into suspicion.
I won’t let history repeat itself.
If Marco ever wants to find me again, he’ll have to do more than accuse and doubt.
He’ll have to remember the boy who jumped into a fountain without fear.
And decide whether that man still exists.