Page 32 of Ruined By Protection
"This is... too much," I murmur, setting my pathetic little bag on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.
Lucrezia waves away my concern. "Nonsense. It's one of our smaller guest rooms."
I nearly laugh. If this is small I can't imagine what they consider large.
"The bathroom is through there," she continues, pointing to a door on the right. "It's fully stocked with everything you might need—towels, toiletries, robes. If anything's missing just let me know."
I nod, overwhelmed by the generosity.
Lucrezia steps closer, her expression softening. "Look, I know we're strangers right now but Evelyn has told me enough. You can count on this family for anything, Hazel." She takes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so petite.
Something in her eyes tells me she understands more than she's letting on. Has she been where I am?
"Thank you," I whisper, throat tight with emotion I can't afford to release yet.
"Get some rest. We can talk later." She squeezes my hand once more before heading to the door.
It clicks shut behind her and I'm alone in this palatial room that feels like a sanctuary and a gilded cage.
The silence wraps around me like a blanket. No cameras watching. No Elliott monitoring my movements. Just me and my thoughts for the first time in what feels like forever.
I need a shower. Need to wash away the airport grime, the fear, the memory of Elliott's hands on me last night.
The bathroom is a marble paradise, with a walk-in shower big enough for four people and a soaking tub that makes me want to cry with longing. Another time. Right now, I need to be quick.
Standing before the massive bathroom mirror, I take a deep breath and begin to undress. I pull my sweater over my head slowly, wincing as the movement stretches tender muscles. The fabric catches on my shoulder and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
When I finally drop the sweater to the floor I force myself to look at my reflection.
My face is unmarked, of course. Elliott was always careful about that. "Can't have my beautiful wife showing up to a charity gala with a black eye," he'd say, as if his restraint was something to be grateful for.
But my body tells another story.
Purple fingerprint bruises circle both upper arms, five distinct marks where he gripped me too hard two days ago when I wore a dress he hadn't approved. An older, yellowing bruise spreads across my ribs from where I ‘accidentally’ bumped into the kitchen counter last week. And the newest addition: a patch of angry red skin on my back where he shoved me into the sharp edge of the bathroom door last night.
Nothing serious. Nothing that won't heal in a week or two. Nothing that would raise alarm if a doctor happened to see. Just enough to remind me who was in control.
I trace the edge of a bruise with my fingertip, feeling the dull throb of pain. For two years I've hidden these marks undercarefully selected clothing. For two years I've smiled through business dinners and charity events, playing the role of the perfect corporate wife while carrying these secret badges of my failure.
Not failure, I correct myself. Survival.
I made it out. I'm here, breathing, standing in this ridiculously palatial marble bathroom in a mansion belonging to people I barely know, but I'm free.
CHAPTER 10
Matteo
The meeting with Damiano has gone on for nearly an hour now. I've walked him through every security detail for the casino event—staff positioning, camera blind spots, emergency protocols—but my mind keeps drifting back to the woman currently occupying a guest room in the east wing.
"The mayor confirmed his attendance?" I ask, though I already know the answer. No one declines an invitation from Damiano Feretti.
"Yes. Along with two city council members and the police commissioner." Damiano's mouth quirks up at the corner. "All very eager to support our charitable endeavors."
I can't help but smirk. Our ‘charitable endeavors’ certainly benefit the community—especially those parts of the community sitting in Damiano's pocket.
"We'll need to keep the commissioner away from the back offices," I note. "Even bought officials get curious after enough champagne."
"Agreed." Damiano closes the security file on his desk and changes the subject. "Are you staying for dinner tonight?"
