Chapter Thirteen: Hurt

Chapter Thirteen: Hurt
Chapter Thirteen : Hurt 

Elena’s POV 

I didn’t know what hurt more—what I saw… or what I felt after seeing it.

The image burned into my memory: Giuliana’s arms wrapped around Lorenzo, her lips dangerously close to his neck, her voice a soft, seductive purr. And Lorenzo… he didn’t move. He didn’t shove her away like I expected. His expression was unreadable, frozen, as if he didn’t even notice I was standing there.

But I was there. And I saw it all.

My chest tightened as I walked away from that room, my footsteps echoing like thunder through the DeLuca halls. My throat burned, not from tears—I hadn’t cried yet—but from the weight of betrayal, from the knot of confusion twisting inside me.

Had I misunderstood the scene? Had Giuliana lured him in? Or had he welcomed her?

The questions chased each other through my head like wolves on a hunt. I didn’t wait for an explanation. I couldn’t. Because the image had already poisoned my heart.

I slammed the door to my room behind me and leaned against it, letting the silence wrap around me like a shield. My fingers trembled as they unfastened the necklace Lorenzo had given me two weeks ago—an apology gift for a cold comment he made at dinner.

Now, it felt like a joke.

I threw it on the vanity table. The sound it made was sharp and final.

Giuliana.

Her name alone now made my stomach churn. From the moment she arrived, there was a tension in the air—a familiarity between her and Lorenzo that I didn’t share with him. She was charming, elegant, and completely aware of the effect she had on people. Especially him.

Everyone in the house knew her. The staff lit up when she walked in. Don Vittorio greeted her with warmth I’d never once received. Even Sophia, who had always been kind to me, seemed to retreat into herself whenever Giuliana was around.

I was the outsider again. Just a pawn who took her sister’s place at the altar.

I sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the floor, my fingers curled into fists in my lap. Why did this hurt so much? Lorenzo wasn’t mine. Not really. Ours was a marriage of duty, not love.

Still… a part of me had hoped.

He had been kind, sometimes. In small, unexpected ways. Like how he remembered I hated olives and had the kitchen adjust my meals. Or how he watched me from across the room when he thought I wasn’t looking. How he placed a protective hand on my back when we walked into dangerous meetings together.

But maybe that was all an illusion. Maybe I had been foolish enough to mistake obligation for affection.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. I didn’t answer.

“Elena?” Lorenzo’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, came through the door.

I didn’t move.

Another knock. “Please, open the door.”

I stood and walked toward it, but didn’t unlock it. My voice was steady, colder than I’d ever heard it. “Go back to Giuliana.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then, softly, he said, “It’s not what you think.”

I laughed—bitterly. “You think that line works on someone like me?”

“Elena—”

“You didn’t even push her away,” I said, pressing my forehead to the door. “You just stood there while she touched you.”

“I froze. I didn’t expect her to—”

“But you didn’t stop her,” I cut in.

Silence again. Then footsteps. He walked away.

And just like that, I felt something inside me crack.

The next morning, I didn’t go to breakfast. I stayed in the art studio Don Vittorio had reluctantly allowed me to use—probably just to keep me out of the way. It was dusty, cluttered with canvases and old paints. But in that solitude, I found something I hadn’t had since the wedding: peace.

I picked up a brush and began to paint. Not carefully—not the way I used to when I was conserving masterpieces in Florence—but recklessly, like my soul was spilling onto the canvas. Swirls of crimson and gold, violent strokes that matched the storm inside me.

Days passed this way.

I stopped trying to talk to Lorenzo. He tried twice more—once during lunch, once at night—but I kept my answers short and my gaze distant. The space between us widened like a canyon.

He didn’t try again after that.

Giuliana still floated around the estate like she owned the place. She smiled too widely, laughed too loudly, always seemed to know where Lorenzo was. But I noticed something else too—how her eyes flicked toward me whenever I walked into a room. There was satisfaction in her gaze, a cruel glint.

She knew what she’d done. And she enjoyed it.

One evening, Sophia found me in the studio. I was covered in paint, my fingers stained blue.

“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” she said gently, setting down a tray of tea. “Especially my brother.”

“I’ve been painting,” I replied flatly, not looking up.

“Don’t shut him out entirely, Elena. He’s not the best at expressing things, but—”

“I saw enough,” I said, cutting her off. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sophia sighed, sitting beside me. “Giuliana always wanted him. Since we were children. She used to say she’d become a DeLuca, no matter what. When she heard about your marriage, she was furious.”

“So she came here to sabotage it,” I said, the realization sinking in. “And I walked right into her trap.”

Sophia hesitated. “Lorenzo… isn’t in love with her. I know my brother. He wouldn’t betray you like that.”

I looked at her, my voice a whisper. “But he didn’t stop her.”

That was all I needed to say.

Later that night, I stood by the window of my room, staring out at the moonlit gardens. I felt like a stranger in my own life. The mansion, the clothes, the name—I had become Elena DeLuca, but I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I wasn’t sure if I hated Lorenzo for what happened… or if I hated myself for still caring.

In the days that followed, I threw myself into new routines. I started reading again, borrowing books from the DeLuca library. I began practicing yoga in the mornings in the east wing balcony. I asked the cook to teach me how to make traditional Roman dishes—something my mother used to do when we were children.

I made a life for myself inside this prison of luxury.

And I stopped waiting.

No more lingering in the hallways, hoping to run into Lorenzo. No more wondering if he would knock on my door again. No more searching his face for signs of regret.

If he wanted me to be just a name on a contract, I would become that.

But one evening, as I was exiting the library, I turned a corner and nearly collided with him. He stepped back, surprised. I froze too.

“Elena.”

“Lorenzo,” I said, my tone unreadable.

His eyes searched my face. “Can we talk?”

“I have nothing to say,” I replied, stepping past him.

But his hand gently caught my wrist. “Please.”

I looked down at his hand, then back at him. “You had your chance to talk. That night. When I needed you to choose me.”

He dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve acted faster. Should’ve seen through her game. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“But I did,” I whispered. “And I still am.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“I miss you,” he finally said, his voice low.

I shook my head. “You miss the version of me who waited around, who believed in this… sham of a marriage. But she’s gone.”

I walked away again.

And for the first time, I didn’t look back.