Page 68 of Ruined By Protection
"It's not just you, Hazel," she says, her voice hardening. "This past year alone, I've watched five women—including myself—suffer at the hands of men who claimed to love them."
She turns to face me fully, her eyes blazing with a fierceness I haven't seen before.
"Five women, Hazel. All different backgrounds, different circumstances, but the same story. Control. Pain. Fear." She counts each one off on her fingers. "Me. Sienna. Zoe, Evelyn. And now you."
"Sometimes I wonder how many women around the world are living in their own private hell right now," Lucrezia continues, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "Thousands? Millions? How many are trapped with nowhere to go? No chance of escape."
Evelyn? What happened to her?
She laughs bitterly. "You know, I was never what you'd call a feminist. Growing up in this family—this life—it's all about the men. The business, the power, the decisions... all of it belongs to them. That's just how it is." She shakes her head. "But even as a little girl I remember thinking how unfair it all seemed."
The car turns onto a quieter street, the rhythmic passing of lights from buildings casting alternating shadows across our faces.
"Sienna was just a kid when it started for her," Lucrezia says, her voice breaking. "A child. She should have been playing with friends, going to school dances, worrying about homework. Instead she was learning how to hide bruises and walk silently so she wouldn't disappoint her asshole father." She swallows hard. "She lost the most precious years of her childhood to that monster."
I think about the quiet, dark-haired young woman I met briefly at dinner.
"And Zoe," Lucrezia continues. "Her suffering was different but no less real. Manipulated, lied to, used as a pawn..." She trails off, shaking her head. "The details don't matter. What matters is that another woman's life was treated as disposable."
The weight of her words presses down on me. My own pain suddenly feels like part of something larger, a terrible pattern repeated endlessly across time and place. I think about Elliott—his groomed smile, his charming public persona, the way he convinced everyone, including me, that he was a good man.
I stare at Lucrezia, watching as the fire in her eyes gradually dims. Her shoulders drop and she leans back against the leather seat. The passion that fueled her words seems to drain away, leaving her looking smaller somehow.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to dump all of that on you."
"No, please don't apologize." I squeeze her hand, still wrapped in mine. "Thank you for telling me."
Lucrezia nods but doesn't speak again. Her gaze drifts to the window. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable—it's filled with a shared understanding that doesn't need words.
I study her profile in the dim light of the car. For the first time since I've met her, Lucrezia looks truly tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep exhausted. The perfectly-applied makeup can't hide the shadows under her eyes or the tightnessaround her mouth. Her usual vibrant energy has vanished, leaving behind a woman who's carrying a weight I hadn't noticed before.
She catches me looking and attempts a smile but it doesn't infuse her features. Then she turns away again, leaning her head against the window.
CHAPTER 21
Hazel
The car finally pulls up to the Feretti mansion. I barely wait for it to stop before pushing the door open, desperate for space, for air, for anything that isn't the suffocating weight of Lucrezia's words mixing with my own fears.
"Hazel, wait—" Lucrezia calls after me, but I'm already halfway up the steps to the front door.
Inside, the house is mercifully quiet. I don't stop to see who else might be around. My feet carry me straight up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time despite my exhaustion. I don't look back, don't check to see if Matteo's bike has arrived. I can't face him right now.
When I reach my room I close the door behind me and lean against it, my breath coming in short gasps. The elegant guest room feels too big, too exposed. I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
I don't know how long I sit there before I hear a soft knock. I don't answer but the door pushes open anyway, forcing me to scoot forward on the hardwood floor.
Matteo stands in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. His eyes find me immediately, huddled on the floor. Without a word he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
I expect him to help me up, to guide me to the bed or a chair—something a normal person would do. Instead he slides down the wall opposite me, sitting on the floor with his long legs stretched out in front of him.
We sit in silence, facing each other across the expanse of polished hardwood. His dark eyes never leave my face but he doesn't speak. Doesn't demand explanations or offer platitudes. He just... waits.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with all the things we aren't saying. I study him—the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the powerful way he holds himself even sitting on the floor, the watchful intensity in his eyes.
"I'm not leaving," he finally says, his voice low and certain. "Not until you kick me out."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest—not amused, but bitter and cutting. It sounds foreign to my own ears.
