Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I recognize those shoes. I saw them held up with pride only hours ago, and heard the silent gasp of delight when they were found in the right size. Small fingers guarded them as if they were priceless treasures the entire time we were in the boutique.
They’re Camille’s shoes.
I’m certain of it.
The world wobbles as I look from the girl to her mother, my throat almost too constricted to speak. “Where did you get those?”
The woman follows my gaze and smiles fondly. “A little girl gave them to her earlier today. Her father said they had extras, and they asked if we’d like them.”
Extras?
My heart aches so painfully that I have to press my hand against it to keep it in place.
Camille gave away her shoes.
Was that because of my stupid stubbornness? Did I force her to give away something she wanted because I’m too afraid to accept help?
My fear is understandable. Edoardo’s cautions don’t come with leeway. If anyone finds out about our arrangement for me to pay for the custody of our child, I’ll lose more than the parental rights I lost within minutes of him being born.
I’ll lose him entirely.
Not trusting my voice not to crack if I were to talk, I nod before I finish closing the curtains. I need to back away before the guilt and grief tangled around my heart spill out in front of witnesses.
As I head to my makeshift bed, the cold follows like an accusing shadow. It presses under my ribs until the promise of a restless night suffocates under its weight.
I lay on the scratchy blankets for over an hour, tossing and turning. I’m so hypocritical. I taught Camille to stand up to her father, all the while cowering from my own.
If my father had raised me with half the values Dante is instilling in Camille, I would have stood a better chance against men like Edoardo. Bowing my head wouldn’t be my first instinct. I would have fought years ago and perhaps had enough dignity not to let my child be taken away from me after only a brief exchange of harsh words.
Guilt slams into me, leaving me reckless. Not thinking, I snatch up my phone and hit a contact at the top of the screen.
I anticipate Edoardo to deny my request, so you can picture my surprise when he answers after only a handful of rings.
“It’s late.”
“I know. I just…” I trail off, unsure what I can say that won’t seem desperate. My next words are pathetic, but I push on. “I need to remember what I’m working toward, Edoardo. I’m struggling.”
When I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt, clearing away any spilled contents, his glare makes it seem as if I don’t scrub my clothes clean after being gifted them from a homeless shelter. “I thought we had an agreement?”
“We do. I still have three weeks before the next payment is due.”
His brow arches, prompting me to fulfill his request the last time we spoke.
I forcefully swallow, my throat dry from his indecent stare. Like a woman with no rights, I nod, then slowly pull my sweater over my head. My bra—a stage piece—immediately draws Edoardo’s attention. He licks his lips before an arrogant grunt rattles through my phone.
I didn’t wear it for him, but I angle my camera so he can’t mistake how well my breasts fill the lacy red bra.
Snap.
My chest heaves when a familiar click sounds in my ears.
“What are you doing?” I snatch up my sweater to cover my chest.
He takes a moment to peruse the image he took of me before he murmurs, “Making sure this is worthwhile.”
I can’t breathe when the background behind him changes from a rich, masculine space to a softer and childlike setting within a handful of strides.
“If you wake him—”
“I won’t,” I promise, whispering.
He appraises the authenticity of my pledge before he spins the camera to face Gabriele. He’s sleeping peacefully in a bed too large for his small frame, softly snoring.
I trace his adorable face before brushing my lips against the screen. Then I try to make sure Edoardo having a picture of me in lingerie is worthwhile for me as well.
“Delete that,” Edoardo says a second after I double-tap the back of my phone, taking a silent screenshot. “Now.”
I flutter my lashes, feigning daftness. “Delete what?”
“The screenshot you just took.”
My hair slaps my face when I shake my head. “I didn’t take a screenshot.”
“Now!” He brings his face to within an inch of the screen. “Or you’ll never see him again.”
I want to call him out as a liar, to scream that he doesn’t have the guts to cut off the money I pay each month. But the moment he grabs Gabriele’s arm, jolting him awake, my fight surrenders.
Submissively, I delete the only photo I have of my son and beg for mercy instead.