Chapter 41 HE DOESN'T OWN YOU
••Luciana••
I told Roman I wasn’t going, and for a couple of hours, I nearly convinced myself of that. But deep down, I knew the truth. There was no scenario in which Roman would pass up my father’s invitation; the weight of our family ties loomed over us like loaded guns on a table. If Roman was going, then I was, too. After all, appearances were everything, especially in families like ours.
So when he returned the next day and coolly instructed me to get dressed, I didn’t protest. I simply nodded and walked away, accepting my fate.
For the first time, the thought of returning to Sicily filled me with a sense of dread instead of excitement; home felt more like a tightening grip around my chest than a warm embrace.
I moved through the room in silence, picking out something suitable with little deliberation. I settled on a stylish black dress—elegant but understated—and took care of my accessories. When I glanced at the clock, I hesitated.
Just 25 minutes.
That was all it took.
I studied my reflection for a moment, a bit taken aback by how swiftly I had prepared myself. There was no room for second guessing; I simply grabbed whatever I needed in that short span of time.
When I stepped out, Roman was already waiting.
He looked composed. His gaze flicked over me briefly, paused for a second longer than necessary, then moved away.
“Ready,” he said.
I nodded.
The jet took off smoothly, the hum of the engine filling the silence between us. I settled into my seat and turned toward the window almost immediately. Sicily looked beautiful from above. It always did.
I decided I wouldn’t talk. I would just watch the sky and count the minutes.
Somewhere into the flight, Roman broke the silence.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t turn. “Why do you think I’m not okay?”
“I never said you weren’t,” he replied calmly. “I asked if you are, princess.”
That name again.
“I am fine,” I said, a little sharper than intended.
“Fine,” he repeated. “That word does a lot of work for you."
I sighed and finally turned to face him. “What exactly do you want me to say, Roman?”
“Nothing dramatic,” he said. “You’re not dramatic anyway. You’re just… quietly violent when annoyed.”
I scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from someone who easily goes silent for days without bothering, as if silence is a conversation.”
“It usually is,” he said. “You just refuse to participate.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m participating now, aren’t I?”
“By glaring at me like I personally planned your father’s wedding?”
That earned him a look. “Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking,” he said. “I’m poking.”
“Well stop poking.”
“That would defeat the purpose.”
I shook my head, turning back to the window. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” he said lightly, “you married me.”
I laughed, short and humorless. “Let’s not rewrite history.”
“Fair,” he said. “You married my surname.”
“And you married convenience,” I shot back.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It is.”
“Then we’re even.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time, but not as sharp. I kept my eyes on the clouds, though my thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. My father’s house. Antonio. A new woman sitting where my mother once sat, wearing a smile meant to intimidate rather than welcome.
Roman shifted in his seat. “You know,” he said, “you could be angry. You have permission.”
“I don’t need permission,” I replied. “I just don’t see the point.”
“There’s always a point to anger.”
“Not in my family,” I said quietly. “It gets you nowhere.”
He didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was lower. “You don’t have to impress anyone today.”
I turned to him again. “You really think that’s possible?”
He shrugged. “I think you’ve been doing it your whole life, whether you wanted to or not.”
I hated how accurate that was.
“I don’t care who he marries,” I said. “I just don’t like being summoned like a trophy he wants to show off.”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t own you. At least not anymore."
“No,” I said. “But he likes to pretend he does.”
He leaned back, “If it helps, I don’t belong to him either.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s comforting.”
“I try.”
We lapsed into silence again. This one felt different. Less tense, and more… thoughtful. Then Roman reached into the small cooler beside his seat.
I noticed too late.
“If only,” he said casually, “you weren’t okay right now, I would have given you this.”
I turned slowly. It is chocolate milk.
He dangled it just out of reach, a lazy smirk on his face.
“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered.
“You said you were fine.”
My throat betrayed me. It tightened slightly, just enough for him to notice.
“Oh,” he said softly. “You lied.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I’m choosing dignity."
“You’re choosing suffering.”
I reached for it. He pulled it back.
“Roman.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re not okay.”
I hesitated. Just for a second. “I’m not… great,” I admitted.
He handed it to me then.
I took it, our fingers brushing his briefly, and pierced the straw through the seal. The first sip tasted like relief.
I didn’t thank him. I didn’t need to.
As I stared out the window again, sipping slowly, something in my chest eased. I still didn’t want to face my father. I still hated the idea of that dinner, but I felt steadier, and less alone.
Even if Roman was my husband by contract, even if I didn’t like him most days, somehow he had found a way to make this moment bearable.
And for now, that was enough.