Chapter 2: Fragments in the Night

Liliana Miller

The night air in coastal Italy was merciless. It sliced through my thin blouse like icy knives, but I barely felt it. My legs moved on autopilot, carrying me away from the luxury villa, away from the moans still echoing in my skull, away from the two people who had just carved out my heart and stomped on it.

I didn’t know how long I had been walking. Hours, maybe. The winding roads outside the city blurred into shadows and distant lights. The Mediterranean breeze carried the faint scent of salt and pine, but it did nothing to wash away the taste of vomit and betrayal still clinging to my tongue. Every step sent fresh shards of pain through my chest. My eyes burned from crying, my throat raw from screaming.

*Stupid. So fucking stupid.*

Liliana Miller. That was me. The girl who thought love could fix everything. The girl who believed that if she just tried hard enough, sacrificed enough, she could build the family she never had.

To be honest with myself — and with the universe that clearly hated me — I was foolish. Obsessed. A desperate young woman who wanted nothing more than to be a mother. To hold a baby in my arms and know I had created something whole, something permanent. Growing up bouncing between foster homes does that to you. It leaves a hollow space inside that you try to fill with promises of “forever.” You cling too tight. You apologize too much. You destroy yourself trying to be enough for someone who was never going to choose you back.

The road stretched endlessly. My phone had died long ago — or maybe I had turned it off after the hundredth call from Alex. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. The wedding tomorrow? Mia’s perfect day? My own wedding in two weeks? All of it was ash now.

Tears kept falling, silent and endless, mixing with the wind on my cheeks. My body ached — not just from the hours of walking, but from three years of hormones, injections, and self-hatred that had all been built on a lie. My reflection in passing shop windows looked like a ghost: swollen eyes, smeared mascara, hair tangled from the sea breeze. A lost soul wandering through someone else’s paradise.

Eventually, the lights of a small town flickered ahead. My throat burned with thirst and the aftertaste of bile. I stumbled into the nearest convenience store, the fluorescent lights assaulting my eyes like judgment.

The elderly woman behind the counter gave me a sympathetic look but said nothing. I grabbed a bottle of cold water, splashed some on my face in the tiny bathroom, scrubbing at the tear tracks and vomit stains on my blouse as best I could. I popped a stick of mint gum into my mouth, chewing mechanically, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown. It didn’t work. The shame, the rage, the hollow ache — they stayed.

I paid with trembling hands and stepped back into the night. But I couldn’t go back. Not to the villa. Not to the life I had been living for everyone else.

*Tonight, just for once, I choose me.*

I walked until I found it — a small, upscale beachside clubhouse hotel that doubled as a late-night lounge for tourists and locals. Warm golden lights spilled from its windows, soft jazz music drifting into the street. It looked alive. Warm. The opposite of the freezing emptiness inside me.

I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, looking every bit like a lost puppy — disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders hunched against the world. A few heads turned, but I didn’t care. I made my way to the bar, the polished wood gleaming under low lights, and slid onto a stool.

The bartender, a kind-faced man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair, gave me a gentle nod. “Signorina? What can I get you?”

I swallowed hard, my voice hoarse but steady. “The strongest mix you have. Something that will make me forget my own name.”

He studied me for a moment — the dried tears, the wrecked expression — but didn’t ask questions. “Coming right up.”

I stared at my hands on the bar, fingers still raw from digging into my thighs earlier in the doctor’s office. The weight of the day pressed down on me again. Alex’s hypocritical words echoed in my head: *“A man has needs.”* Mia’s weak excuses: *“The devil tempted me.”*

A bitter laugh almost escaped me. I had spent years trying to be perfect for him. For them. For the dream of a family that would finally make me feel wanted. And in one afternoon, it all burned.

The alcohol hit like fire, spreading through my chest, but it wasn’t enough.

I drained the glass in two more greedy swallows and slid it back across the bar with a shaky hand. “Another,” I rasped.

The bartender hesitated, his kind eyes narrowing with concern. “Signorina, maybe slow down—”

“Another,” I repeated, louder this time. My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. The numbness was starting to creep in at the edges, and I wanted it to swallow me whole.

He poured. I drank. Then another. And another. The world began to tilt and soften, the sharp edges of my pain blurring into something almost bearable. The jazz music in the background stretched and warped. Lights danced like fireflies. I laughed once — a bitter, broken sound — then felt fresh tears spill over.

I kept going. Requesting more. Even to the point where I swore the bartender had three heads. I blinked hard, trying to focus, but the room kept spinning.

“You should stop drinking already, princess…” a deep voice said from somewhere above me. Not the bartender’s. This one was richer, rougher, like aged whiskey and smoke.

“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes at the man who stood over me. Fuck, I couldn’t see him well, but I was sure as hell he was tall. Masculine. Big. A solid wall of presence that made the spinning room feel a little steadier for half a second.

“You should go home. No more, bartender. Come on…”

“Shut up!!” I screamed this time, slamming my palm on the bar. The impact jarred up my arm, but the pain felt distant. “I said shut up…” I stood up too fast. The floor moved beneath me like ocean waves. “Don’t tell me what to do. Why does everyone tell me what to do… why?? Why!!!!!”

The scream tore out of me, raw and loud enough that a few other patrons turned. Then the dam broke again. I burst into ugly, heaving sobs right there at the bar, shoulders shaking, mascara running fresh rivers down my cheeks. I shook my head, staring up at the blurry giant in front of me through the haze.

“Mmm. Trouble at home…” he murmured, more to himself than to me. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was a low rumble underneath it.

“Yesss…” I slurred, wiping my nose with the back of my hand like a child. “My God. He’s an asshole. A big one…”

The man sighed. “Alright, princess… let me take you home.”

I shook my head violently, the motion making the room lurch. Then, for a moment, the alcohol haze parted just enough for me to get a clearer look at him.

He was tall — easily over six feet — with a powerful, broad-shouldered build that spoke of quiet strength rather than gym vanity. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Long white hair tied back in a loose, effortless ponytail, a few strands framing his face. A thick white beard, neatly trimmed but still rugged. And a thin, faded scar running along the side of his left eye, giving him a dangerous, lived-in edge. He looked like a man who had seen storms and walked out the other side.

*Damn.* Even through the drunken fog, one thought cut through clearly.

“Woah… you’re handsome… very…” I breathed out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. My legs wobbled. I fell forward, straight into his chest.

He caught me easily, one large hand steadying my shoulder. He smelled like cedar, salt air, and something faintly smoky. Solid. Warm. Nothing like Alex’s familiar cologne that now made me sick to think about.

Everything crashed over me again in a dizzy wave — the doctor’s office, Alex’s lies, Mia bent over that couch with her dress around her waist, his hypocritical words about *my* body, *my* failure, while he was inside my best friend. The family I had destroyed myself for. The love I had begged for. The years I had spent feeling broken and unworthy.

All of it burned.

And in that burning, something reckless and shameless ignited.

I pressed my face against his chest for a second, then tilted my head up, looking into his eyes with blurry, tear-streaked defiance. My voice came out low, slurred, but startlingly direct.

“Would you fuck me, Daddy?”