Page 137 of I'm sorry, Princess
The front facade stretches wide, three stories of old-world Italian grandeur, its balconies draped in wrought iron, its windows catching the late-afternoon light like watchful eyes. The scent of cypress and lavender rides the warm air, tangled with the faint trace of chlorine from the pool down below.
Beyond the terraces, the pool glitters like a shard of the Mediterranean dropped in the garden, framed by cream stone and guarded by hedges cut so sharp you could slice your hand on them. I remember summers here, not the lazy kind other rich boys had, but days spent learning from my father how to negotiate over champagne while guests swam in the background. Every inch of this place was a classroom in power.
Serena is silent beside me, taking it all in. I can feel her eyes move over the property, the way her breathing shifts when the scale of it settles in. She sees beauty. I see legacy. I see the weight of a crown I never asked for but wear better than anyone ever could.
As Nicolas pulls up to the front steps, I take one last look at the house.
It hasn’t changed.
My mother is waiting at the front door.
Even from here, I can see she’s made an effort, long gray curls framing her face, blue eyes that match mine. But the joy in them can’t quite hide the shadows underneath, the faint bags, the quiet ache of a widow who’s carried her grief for a decade.
I step out of the car, circle around, and open Serena’s door. Before I can say a word, my mother is moving, running, almost, and then she’s in my arms, holding me like she’s been starved of me for years. Which, in a way, she has.
“Figlio mio caro, I missed you so much.”
Her voice cracks on the words, her arms squeezing with more strength than her small frame should hold.
“I missed you too, mamma,” I answer, my own voice lower, steadier. She feels weightless in my arms, no more than a hundred pounds, and it makes something in my chest tighten.
When she finally lets go, her gaze shifts to Serena. My princess is blushing, eyes down, her fingers fidgeting at her nails like she’s sixteen again and meeting someone’s mother for the first time.
“Oh Dio, sei stupenda.” My mother’s face softens in a way I haven’t seen in years. She kisses Serena on the cheek, pulls her into a hug. “Are you Lorenzo’s girlfriend?”
Serena shoots me a quick, uncertain glance before smiling at my mother and returning the hug. Two fragile women, each important to me in their own way, wrapped in each other’s arms. My mother speaks in rapid Italian, and Serena nods and smiles like she understands every word.
And I stand there, watching. Thinking.
Is this what she’s become to me? One of the most important people in my life? Who the fuck would’ve thought my greatest weakness would be a petite woman with blonde-highlighted hair, a smile worth killing for, brown eyes, and an unhealthy obsession with books?
I make the introductions properly. My mother freezes when she hears Serena’s last name, Beaumont, and for a second, I see something flicker in her eyes. But I’m too tired to dig into it tonight. Whatever history there is between my father and her family can wait.
Dinner is quick, my mother’s lasagna, rich and perfect, a taste I haven’t had in years. Then Serena and I retreat upstairs to my old bedroom.
We shower together. I take my time washing her hair, her body, my hands smoothing over her skin while she melts against me. For ten whole minutes we just stand there, under the heat, letting the water soak into our bones.
When we’re done, I take her straight to bed. She’s asleep in less than five minutes, her breathing soft and even. I pull her against me, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, her head tucked under my chin.
I love this. Holding her. Having her where she belongs.
I love—
The thought lodges in my head before I can finish it, and I fall asleep with it there, unspoken but heavy.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Serena
Istill can’t believe where I am.
Florence is a dream, warm, golden, alive in a way that feels like stepping into another century. And this house… this house isn’t a house at all. It’s an aristocratic mansion, every arch and balcony whispering history and wealth. But the view, God, the view steals my breath.
From Lorenzo’s bedroom, the land rolls out in lush green, the garden stretching in symmetrical perfection. Roses, lilies, and flowers I can’t even name burst with color, scent carried up by the breeze. A small artificial lake glimmers between the trees, lotus flowers drifting across its surface, swans moving with slow, regal grace.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Except him.
