Page 109 of Stalking Ginevra

“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

Eyes narrowing, she leans in and whispers, “What’s he done to you?”

I lower my voice to a rasp. “Benito paid off the sharks and got rid of my stalker. Thanks to him, we’re safe.”

Brow furrowing, She tightens her grip on my shoulders. “Ginny, I already had a plan,” she whispers. “Everything was in place?—”

“Stop,” I hiss. My gaze darts to Benito, whose dark eyes narrow. I’ll be damned if I let Mom incriminate herself with him watching our every move. “It’s over.”

I pull her close, trying to draw some comfort from her presence. Mom relaxes in my embrace, finally seeming to understand. Over her shoulder, I meet Benito’s gaze. His eyes bore into my soul with a cold intensity that sends shivers racing down my spine.

Dread coils around my gut like a constrictor. What does he plan to do now that he’s got me under his control?

His gaze is relentless, peeling away every layer of my defenses, searching for truths that don’t exist. Every instinct screams at me to look away, grab Mom, and run, but it’s like being locked in the gaze of an Indian cobra. Mesmerizing and hypnotic, it anchors me in place, the intensity making my knees want to buckle. Mom’s grip loosens, and I sense her hesitation, as if she feels something is wrong.

“Ginny…” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear.

But I don’t respond. I can’t. Not with Benito here, a constant reminder of my powerlessness. Coming to him feels like accepting punishment for breaking our engagement, but I’ve run out of choices.

I force myself to swallow the rising panic, keeping my expression neutral even as my heart hammers like a warning bell. This isn’t the time to show fear, not in front of him. Not when he’s waiting for me to crack.

“Ginny, is he hurting you?”

My heart skips, making space for recent resentments. Mom's concern is too late—I'm already damaged. Screaming this would be futile because I'm torn about where to vent my frustration. Toward Mom for pretending all those years to be incoherent, or to Benito for trapping me in this marriage. Or to myself, for my contribution to this mess.

When Mom whimpers, I give my head a frantic shake. “He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

It’s a half-truth at best. Benito hasn’t laid a hand on me yet, but he did make me spend our wedding night in a concrete cell. His eyes burn into the side of my face, daring me to spill the truth.

Despite everything, a small part of me clings to the hope that beneath his cold exterior is the boy I loved. The boy who treated me like his queen. I just need to find a way to reach him, to coax out that tiny kernel of the past.

Mom pulls back, her eyes welling with tears. “Come home with me.”

My stomach churns at the prospect of stepping out of this suite and facing Bob Brisket. His parting words thud through my ears, making me shudder. I don’t want to have sex with a man capable of such unbridled violence. Benito’s protection is the only thing keeping us safe.

He hasn’t moved from the doorway, yet his presence fills the room, making it hard to inhale. I swallow, trying to stay upright when the weight of his stare presses down on my bones.

“We can leave right now,” Mom adds. “You don’t have to stay here.”

Benito steps forward, closing the distance between us in an instant. “This is our honeymoon. Ginevra isn’t leaving.”

The word hits like a blow, cold and paralyzing.Honeymoon. I can’t imagine anything more terrifying. Benito and me, alone, with nothing to shield me from his intentions. My stomach knots at the thought. I’m so painfully inexperienced, yet he’s been with that beautiful woman and possibly several more in the years we’ve been apart.

My pulse races, and my chest tightens to the point of pain. It takes every effort to hold a neutral expression, to hide how much his words shake me to the bone. But the thought of being so vulnerable with the man I betrayed turns my insides to ice.

Mom releases me to glare at Benito. “Thank you for paying off our debts, but was it necessary to demand Ginevra’s hand in marriage?”

“Yes, it was,” he replies, his voice flat.

Silence mounts until the tension becomes heavy and thick. Mom shifts on her heels, her eyes darting between us, but even she quails beneath his stare. Sweat beads at my temples, and the robe’s toweling fibers aggravate my skin.

“Why don’t we have lunch together?” Mom says, her voice artificially bright. “The three of us, at the restaurant downstairs.”

“No.”

Benito’s sharp reply slices through the air like a blade. He steps closer with a bone-chilling smile. “I want quality time with my wife to catch up on the five years we’ve lost.”

His words tighten the knot in my stomach. Mom’s fingers twitch around my shoulders, but she has no reply. How could either of us explain how we failed to warn him about what would happen to his family?

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