Page 51 of His Nephew's Ex
“This is about keeping me controlled.” She moves to the windows, pressing her palm against the bulletproof glass. “Do you know what I realized today, Simeone? I can’t remember the last time I made a single decision about my own life.”
“You make decisions—”
“About what? Whether to have the salmon or the chicken for dinner? Whether to wear the blue dress or the green one?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Those aren’t choices. Those are the illusion of choice.”
I watch her reflection in the glass, noting the way her shoulders shake slightly. Not with rage this time—with something that looks dangerously close to defeat.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need to feel human again.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I need to make a decision that matters, even if it’s small. I need to have some corner of my life that belongs to me.”
The vulnerability in her admission makes something crack in my chest. I’ve been so focused on possession that I’ve forgotten the difference between owning something and destroying it.
“What kind of decision?”
“Let me redesign part of the estate. Give me a project—something I can control from start to finish.” She turns from the window, and there’s a flicker of life in her eyes for the first time in days. “Let me create something instead of just... existing in the spaces you’ve created for me.”
The request is reasonable, manageable, completely within my control. And yet something in me rebels against giving her even this small concession.
“Which part of the estate?”
“The garden pavilion. It’s been empty since I arrived.” Her voice gains strength as she sees I’m considering it. “I could turn it into something useful—a library, an art studio, whatever. Something that’s mine.”
Mine. The word should irritate me, but instead it sends heat pooling through my chest. She wants to claim a piece of my world, mark it with her presence.
“You’d work with my architects, follow all security protocols.”
“Of course.” She moves closer, and I catch the jasmine scent that’s been haunting my dreams. “But the final decisions would be mine. The design, the purpose, the timeline—mine.”
“And this would make you happy?”
“It would make me feel alive again. If only for a bit.” Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, and the simple touch makes my pulse spike. “Simeone, I’m not trying to escape you. I’m trying to survive you.”
The honesty in that admission nearly breaks my resolve completely. She’s not fighting me—she’s fighting for herself, for some small piece of autonomy in a world I’ve completely controlled.
“Fine.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “The pavilion is yours.”
Relief floods her features so intensely that I realize how close I came to losing her completely. Not to escape, but to the kind of slow psychological erosion that leaves nothing but an empty shell.
“Thank you.” She tips her head in gratitude. “You won’t regret this.”
But as I watch her hurry toward the door—the first time I’ve seen her move with purpose in days—I’m already calculating ways to monitor her project whether she likes it or not. Cameras in the pavilion, background checks on every contractor, approval authority over every decision disguised as helpful suggestions.
She thinks I’m giving her freedom, but I’m simply expanding the boundaries of her cage.
The thought should satisfy me. Instead, it makes something cold settle in my stomach as I remember the emptiness in her eyes just minutes ago.
I return to my office and pull up the pavilion’s architectural plans, already designing the surveillance infrastructure I’ll need. But my attention keeps drifting to the monitors showing her animated conversation with the head groundskeeper, the life returning to her movements as she gestures toward the empty building.
She’s magnificent when she has purpose. Radiant when she feels useful. Everything I’ve always been drawn to in her—the intelligence, the passion, the unbreakable spirit—it all comes alive when she has something to control.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it makes me want to give her more projects, more decisions, more pieces of my world to claim as her own.
Not because I’m becoming soft, but because a happy Loriana is infinitely more intoxicating than a broken one.
I lean back in my chair and watch her through the cameras, noting every gesture, every smile, every moment of genuine engagement. She’s plotting something in that beautiful head of hers—I can see it in the calculating way she examines the pavilion’s structure.
Good. Let her plot. Let her plan. Let her think she’s gaining ground.
