Page 11 of His Enemy's Daughter
None of them see me. They see Sabino Picarelli’s daughter, the perfect ornament, the valuable asset. They assess my appearance, my education, my pedigree. They calculate what marrying me would mean for their families, their businesses, their ambitions.
Not one of them asks what I want. Not one of them cares.
The Di Noto heir corners me near the dessert table, his proximity just slightly too close to be appropriate.
“Your father speaks highly of you,” he says, and his eyes travel down my body with casual ownership. “Says you have an MBA. That you work in his businesses.”
“I do.” I maintain my smile even though my skin crawls. “I find business strategy fascinating.”
“Fascinating.” He repeats the word like it’s amusing. “My father always said educated women make difficult wives. But I suppose if your father can control you, I can too.”
The statement lands like a punch, but I don’t react. Can’t react. This is what my life is, traded from one man’s control to another’s.
“I’m sure we’d find common ground,” I manage, hating myself for every word.
“I’m sure we would.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re very beautiful, Regina. Well-trained. You’ll make an excellent addition to my household.”
Not partner. Not wife. Addition. Like furniture or a piece of art.
“You’re very kind.” The lies come easier with practice. “If you’ll excuse me, I should speak with some of the other guests.”
I escape before he can stop me, weaving through the crowd toward the restrooms with the desperate energy of someone fleeing a crime scene.
The bathroom is blessedly empty. I lock myself in a stall and press my forehead against the cool metal door, breathing in gasps that threaten to become sobs.
Days. Maybe a week, or two at most.
That’s all I have left before my father decides which man gets to own me next. Before my beautiful cage trades its bars for wedding vows and expectations I’ll never be able to meet.
I pull myself together through sheer force of will. Straighten my dress. Fix my makeup. Rebuild the mask until no one would ever guess that underneath it, I’m screaming.
When I emerge, Giordano is waiting in the hallway, his presence both comforting and painful.
“Rough conversation with the Di Noto heir?” His voice is careful, but I hear the anger underneath.
“Is it that obvious?” I don’t look at him, too afraid that if I meet his eyes, I’ll break apart completely.
“Only to someone who’s been watching you for eighteen years.” There’s something in his tone that makes me finally glance at him. “Regina, if there’s anything I can do—”
“There isn’t.” The certainty of it is crushing. “He’s made his decision. My days are numbered. And then whichever one he chooses will become my problem instead of his.”
“You deserve better than this.”
“Deserving has nothing to do with it.” I force myself to start walking back toward the ballroom. “The only thing that matters is what benefits Sabino Picarelli’s empire.”
By the time the gala ends, my face hurts from smiling, my feet ache from heels designed more for aesthetics than function, and my soul feels scraped raw from hours of pretending to be someone I’m not.
The car ride home is silent. My father sits across from me, reviewing something on his phone with the focused intensity he applies to everything. I watch the city blur past, wondering if any of the people in those buildings feel as trapped as I do.
The estate looms ahead—massive, secure, more fortress than home. I’ve lived here for twenty-something years, and it’s never felt like anything except a very beautiful prison.
“Regina.” My father’s voice stops me as I’m heading toward the stairs. “You did well tonight.”
I turn back from the window to face him, searching for any hint of warmth or genuine affection and finding none.
“Thank you, Father.”
“All three candidates expressed interest. That simplifies my decision.” He buttons his suit jacket with characteristic precision. “I’ll let you know when I’ve made my final choice. Be ready to begin the engagement process immediately.”
