Chapter 4

Livia Solene

I didn't wait for my scheduled flight or let myself drown in the dangerous, magnetic pull of Dante any longer. I booked the earliest flight back to New York, desperate to outrun the suffocating temptation of Dante and the terrifying reality of what I was starting to feel. I needed to run back to my cage and leave everything behind.

Why did I even think that I had a chance with Dante? That’s impossible. My sole purpose in this high-society circus is to clean up my husband's endless messes, play the part of the perfect, untarnished trophy wife, follow every rigid command, and shut my mouth.

I wasn't supposed to be running away, let alone entertaining the thought of letting a gorgeous, tattooed man have me into oblivion while a heavy gold wedding ring still choked my finger.

The second I entered the penthouse, the storm broke.

“Where the hell did you go?!” Vincent yelled, storming into the entryway before I could even step. His face was twisted into an ugly, furious mask. “You spent the entire weekend with your secret lover? Enjoying his company so much that you almost forgot to come back?”

I let out a sharp, venomous smirk. He was desperately flipping the script, projecting his own guilt onto me like a coward. I couldn't wrap my head around where this man got the unadulterated audacity to accuse me of infidelity when I had caught him red-handed cheating behind my back more times than I could count.

“I’m tired, Vincent,” I breathed, brushing past him.

“So you did leave to meet your man!”

“Shut up, Vincent!” I snapped, shoving my heavy luggage toward the base of the grand staircase and hauling it up the steps entirely on my own.

He trailed right behind me, his mouth running a mile a minute, not lifting a single finger to help me with the dead weight.

“Make sure to hide your cheating ass, Livia!”

I stopped dead in my tracks, spinning around to face him. He was standing three steps below me, his sneering face right at eye level, and for a split second, I seriously considered letting go of my suitcase and sending it crashing down into his chest just to watch him tumble.

“Vincent, you should tell that to yourself. Make sure to hide your affairs carefully because I am done cleaning up your name just to protect your precious tech business!”

“Livia!”

I didn't wait for him to finish. I turned on my heel, marched straight into our master bedroom, shoved my suitcase onto the edge of the mattress, and whirled back around to face the doorway.

"Livia!"

“What?!” I screamed back, matching his toxic energy point for point. “Scared that you will drop straight into the mud because of your own pathetic mistakes?”

“You!—”

A sharp, distinct chime cut him off. The private elevator pinged, echoing through the quiet luxury of the penthouse.

We both froze, our heads snapping toward the hallway outside our bedroom door. Vincent stepped backward out of the room, and I followed him slowly down to the living room, a cold knot tightening in the pit of my stomach.

Shit.

Standing right in the middle of our open-concept living room, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, were Giovanni and Alessandra Feroci. My parents.

Before a single muscle in my face could betray the panic clawing at my throat, I instantly plastered on the fake, practiced smile I had perfected over years of high-society torture. I stepped up smoothly beside Vincent, who wasted no time wrapping a heavy, suffocating arm around my bare shoulder, playing the part of the devoted husband.

“Mama, Papa, what are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice light and sweet.

Papa didn't even bother answering my question. His cold, calculating eyes dropped immediately to my flat stomach, lingering there like a judge inspecting livestock.

“Still not pregnant?” he mocked, his voice dripping with disappointment. “I told you both to get pregnant sooner! You have been trying for so long, Livia. You need to give the first great-grandchild to your grandfather!”

They were utterly, obsessively unhinged about me having a child. I was their only biological child, though surrounded by a swarm of power-hungry cousins on my father’s side. They were desperate for me to produce the first great-grandchild, to secure their royal lineage and lock down my father’s position as the eventual head of the Feroci family.

It was a crown they were willing to sacrifice my sanity to wear.

“We are still trying, Papa,” Vincent said smoothly, his tone sickeningly calm. A wide, affectionate smile played across his face as he squeezed my shoulder. “Livia has a little trouble with her body, but I am doing my absolute best to give you two a grandkid.”

My teeth sank hard into my bottom lip, biting down until I tasted copper just to keep myself from screaming the unvarnished truth across the room. Vincent was twisting the narrative once again, throwing me under the bus without a second thought. I was not the problem. It was never me.

The agonizing irony burned my chest raw. I had spent months suffering through brutal, humiliating, failed IVF treatments, pumping my body full of hormones and enduring surgical proddings, while the real reason we couldn't conceive was Vincent’s near-infertility, completely destroyed by years of casual, reckless hookups with random women.

It was a dark, mutual secret we guarded with our lives just to preserve our fragile social standing. Once again, I was forced to swallow my dignity and play the broken vessel so the great Vincent Smith wouldn't be mocked in the business world.

“Thank you, Vincent,” Mama cooed, stepping forward and gently cupping Vincent’s cheek like he was her own golden-boy son.

I stood right beside them, invisible as always. I was their flesh and blood, but they had never truly cared about me. They treated Vincent like a son while treating me like an inconvenient accessory.

“You never disappoint us, Vincent,” Mama added, shooting me a sharp, sideways glare loaded with venom.

She always treated me like a failure. Both she and Papa had never forgiven me for being their "useless" daughter who dared to love art and fashion instead of cold corporate business. They had stripped away every ounce of my independence, forcing me into this golden cage just to anchor a business alliance to a man-child.

“We are leaving now,” Papa announced, waving a dismissive hand. “Start working on giving us that grandchild.”

Papa cast one final, frigid look down at me as if I were a cracked vase. “Do not make us wait any longer.”

“Yes, Papa,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash.

We walked them to the private elevator, both of us plastered in fake, sickening smiles. Vincent’s heavy hand remained glued to my shoulder the entire time. The second the heavy elevator doors slid shut and cut off their view, the smile vanished from my face like smoke. I violently shrugged his arm off my shoulder, stepping away as if his touch burned.

I turned toward the hallway, ready to lock myself in the bathroom and wash the filth of this day off my skin, but Vincent’s hand shot out, clamping around my wrist and jerking me back.

I whipped my head around, my right eyebrow arching upward in a cold, silent challenge.

“Your Papa wants us to start making a baby,” Vincent purred, a predatory glint in his eye.

A harsh, sarcastic snort burst from my throat. I wrenched my arm violently out of his grip, staring at him with unadulterated disgust.

“We are just going to waste your two pathetic minutes pounding inside me, Vincent, because we both damn well know it’s never going to work.”

The smug, entitled grin vanished from his face in a single heartbeat, replaced by a flash of wounded male ego.

“You couldn't even make me cum once in four years of marriage,” I added, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “and I am entirely certain you can’t make your precious little secretary cum either.”