Page 50 of His Nephew's Ex
Especially her.
“Sir?” A knock interrupts my surveillance. Dr. Dolores Scalise enters without waiting for permission, her medical bag in hand and disapproval written across her aristocratic features.
“Doctor.” I don’t look away from the screens. “How is she?”
“Physically? Perfect. The baby is developing normally, her vitals are excellent.” Dr. Scalise sets her bag down with pointed precision. “Psychologically? That’s another matter entirely.”
“Explain.”
“She’s exhibiting classic symptoms of captivity syndrome. Anxiety, depression, violent outbursts alternating with periods of complete withdrawal.” The doctor’s voice carries thirty years of authority. “Simeone, I’ve delivered babies for half the powerful families in Italy. I know the difference between protective custody and psychological imprisonment.”
“She’s being protected, not imprisoned.”
“Is she? Because from my examination, she’s showing signs of severe stress that could impact the pregnancy.” Dr. Scalise pulls out a file. “Elevated cortisol levels, disrupted sleep patterns, loss of appetite. Her body is treating this environment as a constant threat.”
The words hit me like ice water. The idea that my protection might harm our child makes something cold and sharp twist in my chest.
“What are you recommending?”
“Mental stimulation. Purpose. Some degree of autonomy, even if it’s carefully controlled.” She meets my gaze directly. “Right now, you’re not protecting her—you’re systematically breaking down everything that makes her who she is.”
I study the woman on the screen, noting for the first time the subtle changes I’ve been too focused on control to see. The way her shoulders curve inward slightly. The listless quality to her movements between bursts of rage. The fact that she’s lost weight when she should be gaining it.
“She’ll get tutors, personal trainers, every amenity—”
“Those are distractions, not purpose.” Dr. Scalise’s voice sharpens. “Simeone, intelligent women don’t thrive in golden cages. They wither. And a withered woman can’t give you the strong heir you’re expecting.”
The clinical assessment cuts deeper than it should. I’ve been so focused on eliminating external variables that I haven’t considered the internal ones I might be creating.
“What would you suggest?”
“Give her something to manage. Something that feels important, even if you’re controlling every aspect of it.” The doctor closes her file. “The illusion of choice is sometimes more powerful than actual freedom.”
After she leaves, I return my attention to the monitors. Loriana has moved from destruction to something worse—she’s sitting perfectly still on the edge of our bed, staring at nothing with empty eyes that make alarm bells ring in my head.
That emptiness is more dangerous than all her fury combined.
I take the stairs three at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs with sudden urgency. When I push through the bedroom door, she doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.
“Stellina.”
Nothing. She continues staring at the wall like I don’t exist.
“Loriana.” I move closer, noting the way she flinches slightly when I enter her peripheral vision. “Talk to me.”
“About what?” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “The weather? The lovely view from my cell? The fascinating new security protocols you’ve implemented?”
The bitter resignation in her tone is worse than screaming. I’ve heard that voice before—from broken people who’ve given up fighting because they know it’s useless.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“No?” She finally turns to look at me, and the emptiness in her brown eyes stops my breath. “Then leave. Walk out that door and don’t come back for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s different—”
“Is it?” She stands with fluid grace, but there’s something fragile about her posture. “Because from where I’m sitting, if I can’t leave and you won’t leave, that makes this a very beautiful prison.”
“This is about keeping you safe.”
