Chapter 61 Sixty one
Elena's POV
I woke up. The sleep had been thin and full of shadows. The truth was still there, heavy in the room.
I did not choose him. I chose war.
I got out of bed. My body felt light and strange. My mind was very clear.
I went to the wardrobe. I opened it. I took out everything he had given me. The soft sweaters, the silk dresses, the foolish delicate shoes. I made a pile on the floor. They were just things. Tools of the lie.
I kept my old jeans. A plain t shirt. My own worn sweater. I put them on.
I took the emerald dress from where I had left it folded. The silk was cool. I carried it out into the hall. Sophie was there, dusting a table. She looked up, her eyes nervous.
I held the dress out to her. “Burn it,” I said.
Her eyes went wide. “Donna Elena, I cannot…”
“You can,” I said. My voice was flat. “Take it to the kitchen fire. Watch it burn. Or throw it in the garden incinerator. I do not care. Just make it gone.”
She took the dress from me like it was a live snake. Her fingers trembled. She looked at my face and saw no room for argument. She nodded once, a quick jerk of her head, and hurried away with the green silk bundled in her arms.
I went back to my room. I sat on the bare bed. The afternoon light faded.
A knock came at the door. It was not Sophie. A maid I did not know came in with a large tray. The smell of rich food filled the room. Roasted meat, herbs, warm bread. There was a single red rose in a thin vase.
“From Don Matteo,” the maid said softly, not meeting my eyes.
She set the tray on a table and turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said.
She paused.
I stood up. I walked to the table. I looked at the perfect meal, the careful gesture. Another move in his game. A peace offering that was not peace. A bribe.
I picked up the tray. It was heavy. I carried it to the door. The maid watched me, her mouth open.
I opened the door. I threw the tray into the hall. It was not a toss. It was a hard, violent heave. The tray hit the doorframe and exploded. Porcelain shattered. Food splattered across the stone floor and the wall. The rose vase broke. Red petals scattered like blood drops on the tile.
The sound was enormous in the quiet hall.
The maid gasped and fled.
I stood in the doorway, looking at the mess. My breath came fast. My hands were empty.
Footsteps sounded, sharp and quick on the stone. He turned the corner.
Matteo. He stopped and looked at the wreckage. He looked at me. His face showed nothing.
He stepped over the broken porcelain. He did not look at the food on the floor. He walked right up to me. He did not speak.
His hand shot out. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was iron, unforgiving. It hurt.
He pulled me out of the room. My feet stumbled on the threshold. He did not slow down. He pulled me down the hall, away from my room, away from the shattered meal.
“Let me go,” I said, my voice tight.
He did not answer. He just kept walking, his fingers locked around my wrist.
He pulled me into his own rooms. The sitting room was large, quiet, masculine. He did not stop there. He pulled me through to his dining room. A small table was set for one. A simple plate, a glass of water.
He pushed me into a chair. My knees hit the wood. I sat down hard.
He finally let go of my wrist. White marks bloomed on my skin where his fingers had been.
He stood over me, looking down. His eyes were dark and impossible to read.
“If you will not eat in your cage,” he said, his voice low and even, “you will eat in mine.”
He turned and walked to a sideboard. He picked up a plain bowl. He ladled soup from a pot into it. He brought it back and set it on the table in front of me. Steam rose from it.
It was simple broth. Some vegetables. Nothing fancy.
“Eat,” he said.
I looked at the soup. I looked at him. “I am not hungry.”
“You will eat,” he said. Not a request. A fact. “You need your strength.”
“For what?” I asked, the words bitter. “For my wedding?”
“For your war,” he answered quietly. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. He did not take a bowl for himself. He just sat there, watching me. “You declared it today. Wars require strength. So eat.”
I stared at him. He met my gaze, unblinking.
Slowly, I picked up the spoon. My hand did not shake. I tasted the soup. It was just soup. It was good.
We sat in silence. Him watching. Me eating. The only sound was the click of my spoon against the bowl.
This was the new game. Not hiding, not lying. Just force against force. Will against will.
And he was right. I needed my strength.
Matteo's POV
I heard the crash. I was in my study. I knew what it was before Ricardo appeared at the door.
“She threw the dinner tray,” he said.
I stood up. I walked to her wing. The mess was impressive. She had put her whole body into it. The hall smelled of rosemary and broken china.
She stood in her doorway, breathing hard, her eyes blazing. She was wearing her old clothes. The room behind her looked stripped.
She had given back the gifts. She had destroyed the peace offering.
She had chosen. Not the partnership but the raw, hard road of the prisoner. Of war.
I felt a grim, terrible pride. And a crushing weight.
I walked to her. I did not speak. Words were useless now. I took her wrist. She was thin. My fingers circled it completely. I felt the bird like bones. I pulled her.
She resisted for a second, then came. She was smart. She knew struggling was pointless.
I took her to my rooms. To my table. I gave her the simplest food I had. She needed to eat. She was already paler, thinner. Her fire burned calories.
I sat across from her. I watched her pick up the spoon. The defiance was still in the line of her mouth, but she ate. She was practical. A survivor.
This was us now. No more masks. No more seduction.
Just a keeper and his captive. A general and his most valuable, most hostile asset.
She finished the soup. She put the spoon down. She looked at me.
“What now?” she asked. Her voice was tired.
“Now you go back to your room,” I said. “Tomorrow, there will be another meal. You will eat it. Or we will repeat this.”
“And if I refuse again?”
“Then we repeat it every time,” I said. “I have endless patience, Elena. And you need to eat.”
She stood up. The chair legs scraped the floor. “I am not a child to be forced to eat.”
“No,” I agreed, standing as well. “You are a prisoner who tried to starve herself as a weapon. I am disarming you. It is not personal. It is tactical.”
A flicker in her eyes. She understood that. She respected tactics.
I walked her back to her room. The mess in the hall was already cleaned. The floor was spotless. As if her rebellion had never happened.
I stopped at her door. I let her go in. She stood just inside, looking out at me.
“Goodnight,” I said.
She said nothing. She closed the door in my face.
I heard the lock turn. A small, futile sound.
I stood there for a moment. Then I turned and walked back to my own empty rooms.
The war had begun. And the first battle, over a bowl of soup, had ended in a stalemate.
She was fed. She was defiant. And she was still mine.
For now, that was all that mattered.