Page 52 of His Nephew's Ex
Because at the end of the day, she’s still exactly where I want her—under my roof, carrying my child, completely dependent on my generosity for even the smallest taste of freedom.
The pavilion project will keep her occupied, give her the illusion of autonomy she needs to stay sane and healthy. But it won’t change the fundamental reality of our situation.
She belongs to me now, whether she’s admitted it or not.
And watching her slowly accept that truth—disguised as compromise and collaboration—will be the most exquisite victory of all.
Through the grainy feed, I watch her come back to herself. The way she moves her hands when explaining something to the groundskeeper, the tilt of her head when she’s thinking—these are the details I’ve been starved of, watching her drift through the house like a ghost.
She’ll be happy here, safe here, as long as she never realizes the cage has no visible bars.
The perfect possession disguised as partnership.
My fingers trace the edge of the monitor as she laughs at something the groundskeeper says, the sound carrying through the audio feed like music. She’s exactly where she belongs—in my world, under my protection, playing by my rules.
And she doesn’t even realize she’s already lost.
17
Loriana
The sound of gravel crunching under expensive tires pulls me from the pavilion blueprints I’ve been studying for the past three hours. My sanctuary-in-progress might be nothing more than measurements and dreams on paper right now, but it’s mine. The first thing that’s been mine since Simeone decided I belonged to him.
Through the library window, I watch a familiar dark Maserati glide through the estate gates like a serpent returning to Eden. My blood turns to ice water as recognition hits me—Flavio’s car, Flavio’s arrogant posture behind the wheel, Flavio’s cruel smile already forming as he spots me through the glass.
He shouldn’t be here. The security protocols Simeone implemented are designed specifically to keep threats like his nephew away from me. But blood trumps precaution in families like the Codellas, and guards who would stop an army let family members pass without question.
I set down my architectural plans with hands that suddenly won’t stop shaking, watching through the window as Flavio emerges from his car with the fluid grace of a predator who’s caught the scent of wounded prey. He’s dressed in one of his ridiculously expensive suit, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the afternoon heat.
He looks good. Healthy. Satisfied in a way that makes my skin crawl with dread.
The front door opens without ceremony—because of course it does. He’s family. He belongs here in ways that I never will, no matter how many rings Simeone puts on my finger or how many children I carry.
“Well, well.” Flavio’s voice carries through the house like smoke, reaching me even here in my temporary refuge. “If it isn’t the little bird in her golden cage.”
I could hide. Could slip out the back entrance and disappear into the gardens until Simeone returns from whatever business meeting is keeping him away from the estate. But running would only prove his point—that I’m exactly what he thinks I am: a kept woman too weak to defend herself.
Instead, I stand and smooth my sundress with deliberate calm, gathering every ounce of dignity I can muster. If Flavio wants a confrontation, he’ll get one. But it’ll be on my terms, not his.
I emerge from the library to find him in the main foyer, turning slowly to take in the opulent surroundings like he’s cataloging inventory. When his eyes land on me, his smile sharpens into something that could cut glass.
“Loriana.” He draws out my name like he’s tasting wine. “You look... comfortable. Settled. Like a house cat who’s forgotten she used to be wild.”
“Flavio.” I keep my voice level, conversational, like we’re discussing the weather instead of circling each other like predators. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but we both know that would be a lie.”
“Such hostility.” He moves closer with that casual grace that once made my heart race—now it just makes my skin crawl. “And here I thought pregnancy was supposed to make women more... agreeable.”
The way he sayspregnancymakes my hand move instinctively to my still-flat stomach. The protective gesture doesn’t go unnoticed—his gaze tracks the movement with satisfaction that makes bile rise in my throat.
How does he know?
“What do you want, Flavio?”
“Can’t a man visit his family? Check on his dear uncle’s... investment?” The pause before the last word is deliberate, cutting. “Make sure you’re being properly cared for in your new accommodations?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharper than intended. “As you can see.”
“Oh, I can see plenty.” His eyes rake over me with the clinical assessment of someone appraising livestock. “The expensive dress, the manicured nails, the way you’re practically glowing with good health and prenatal vitamins. Uncle Simeone is taking excellent care of his breeding stock.”
