Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Inside, the house feels different somehow. Maybe because I'm entering it this time not as a guest, but as...what? A resident? A wife? The thought is too strange to fully grasp.
I wander to the great room, drawn to the wall of windows despite the gray gloom outside. The rain lashes against the glass, the ocean beyond a churning mass of slate and foam. It matches my mood—turbulent, uncertain, beautiful in its wild way.
"Do you like storms?" Gabriele's voice comes from behind me.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway, jacket removed, collar unbuttoned. More casual than I've seen him before, yet no less imposing.
"I do, actually," I admit. "There's something cleansing about them."
He nods, as if my answer confirms something for him. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"You should eat something. It's been a long day."
The concern in his voice catches me off guard. It's practical, yes—he needs to keep me alive, after all—but there's something else there too. Something almost... gentle.
"I could make us something," I offer.
His eyebrows lift slightly. "You cook?"
"I'm not a chef, but I can manage the basics." I smile at him ruefully. "I just want to do something...normal?"
"Understandable. The kitchen is yours, then."
I find the kitchen well-stocked with high-quality ingredients—another sign of Gabriele's meticulous planning. I decide on a simple pasta dish, something comforting for a rainy evening. The familiar routine of chopping, stirring, tasting grounds me, anchors me in the present moment rather than the unknowable future.
Gabriele gives me space, disappearing into what I assume is his office, but returns as I'm plating the food. He's rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms marked with a few faint scars. The sight of them reminds me of who he is, what he's done.
My husband.
The word still doesn't feel real.
We eat at the kitchen island, the rain creating a soothing background rhythm. The pasta is good—not exceptional, but satisfying. Gabriele eats with the focus he seems to bring to everything, present in the moment in a way few people manage.
"This is good," he says. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
After dinner, he insists on cleaning up, waving away my offer to help. I take the opportunity to explore the house more thoroughly, wandering through rooms that balance luxury with practicality. The east wing that he'd assigned to me contains not just a bedroom and bath, but a sitting room and even a small library.
It's in this library that I finally settle, curled in a window seat with a book I can't focus on, listening to the steady beat of rain against glass. The storm outside matches the one in my mind—thoughts swirling, questions mounting, future uncertain.
Night has fully fallen when Gabriele finds me there. He pauses in the doorway, as if uncertain of his welcome.
"May I join you?"
I nod, closing the book I wasn't really reading. He moves to sit in an armchair near the fireplace, not crowding me but close enough for conversation.
"Would you like a fire?" he asks. "The nights get cool here, especially during storms."
"Yes, please."
He builds it efficiently, with the practiced movements of someone who's done it many times before. Soon, flames are dancing behind the grate, painting the room in warm golden light.
"How long do you plan staying up?"
"I'm not sure I can sleep," I admit. Too much has happened, too much has changed. My mind keeps circling back to the reality that I'm now legally bound to this man—this stranger who knows more about me than I know about him.
"Would you like something? Tea, perhaps? Or something stronger?"
The offer surprises me. It's so... normal. Domestic, even. "Tea would be nice."
He nods and rises. "I'll be right back."
Left alone with the fire, I find myself staring into the flames, mesmerized by their dance. Fire transforms, consumes, reduces to essence. It takes what was and creates what will be. So much like this situation I find myself in—my life before reduced to ash, something new and unknown rising from the remains.
Gabriele returns with two steaming mugs, offering one to me. The tea is fragrant, soothing—chamomile with honey and a hint of something else I can't identify.
"What is this?" I ask after taking a sip. "It's lovely."
"An old family recipe. My grandmother's. For sleep and peace of mind."
Another small personal detail offered freely. I find myself collecting them like precious stones, these rare glimpses into who Gabriele Bronzetti is beyond the dangerous protector.
"Tell me about her," I say. "Your grandmother."
He looks surprised by the request, but after a moment, he settles back in his chair. "She was... formidable. Tiny woman, barely five feet tall, but she ruled our household with absolute authority. My grandfather might have been the priest, but she was the true moral compass."
"You loved her." It's not a question.
"Very much." His voice softens. "She took me in after my parents died. Raised me until I was fourteen."