Chapter 6 My broken heart

Bianca

The days after Positano bled into one another, each one a heavier weight on my chest. The silence from Alesso was a screaming void that grew louder with every passing hour. I replayed our last morning a thousand times, dissecting every word, every flicker of what I'd thought was tenderness in his eyes but now recognized as guilt. I had given him my trust, my body, pieces of my heart I didn't even know I could share, and he had vanished with them like smoke.

My family's campaign reached a fever pitch. The "casual meeting" with Alessandro DeSanti was no longer a suggestion; it was a decree. It was to take place in Capetown, at some neutral yet opulent ground for my sentencing. My mother had actually used those words

"It's time to face your future, Bianca."

As if my future were an execution.

I dressed for battle that morning. I chose a severe, tailored black dress, my armor against the world. I pulled my hair back into a tight chignon and applied my makeup with a sharp, precise hand. I would not be the vulnerable girl from the beach. I would be Bianca Morena, heiress and businesswoman, cold and untouchable. I would meet this Alessandro DeSanti and show him exactly what kind of woman he was getting one who would never, ever be controlled.

My father eyed me approvingly as I descended the staircase at our family home. "Now you look the part," he said. "Remember, Bianca. This is about more than you. This is about our family's future."

And what about my future? The question died on my lips. There was no point. I'd learned long ago that my wants, my dreams, my happiness—they were all secondary to the family name.

The car ride was silent. My mother prattled on about the DeSantis' charitable contributions and their impressive business portfolio, but I heard none of it. My heart was a drum of pure, unadulterated fury. I was steeling myself to meet my enemy, all while my heart was still foolishly yearning for a ghost named Alesso who had probably never existed at all.

We were shown into a private dining room overlooking the sea. The view was strikingly similar to the one from our hotel in Positano, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at the cruel irony. Everything was a reminder. Everything hurt.

"They're already here," my mother whispered, squeezing my arm too tightly, her nails digging in through the fabric of my dress.

And then I saw him.

He stood with his back to us, speaking with an older, formidable man I recognized from photographs as Leonardo DeSanti. He was taller than I'd remembered in my research, his shoulders broader in the exquisitely cut navy suit. But the profile was unmistakable—the sweep of dark hair, the line of his jaw, the way he held himself with that particular combination of confidence and...

No.

No, no, no.

My breath hitched. The world tilted on its axis, and I grabbed the back of a nearby chair to steady myself.

As if sensing my stare, he turned.

Time stopped.

His eyes—those same mesmerizing, storm-grey eyes that had looked at me with such heat and tenderness on the beach, that had watched me as we made love, that had been the last thing I saw before falling asleep in his arms—found mine across the expanse of the elegant room.

There was no surprise in them. Only a bleak, resigned horror that told me everything I needed to know.

He knew. He had known this moment would come from the second he saw me on that beach.

The man from Positano.

The man I had given myself to.

The man I had dreamed about, cried over, mourned.

Was Alessandro DeSanti.

The air left my lungs in a violent whoosh, like I'd been punched in the stomach. The floor seemed to liquefy beneath my feet. The room spun, and I heard a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The lie wasn't just an omission—it was a fundamental annihilation of everything I thought we'd shared. Every touch, every whispered word, every moment of connection had been built on sand, and now the tide had come in and swept it all away, leaving only jagged rocks and broken shells.

"Bianca," my father said, his voice seeming to come from very far away. "May I present Leonardo DeSanti, and his son, Alessandro."

Alessandro took a hesitant step forward, and I watched him move as if in a dream—or a nightmare. His gaze was locked on me, pleading, desperate, and I felt a wild, hysterical laugh building in my chest. He had the audacity to look remorseful. To look like he was in pain.

"Miss Morena," he said, and his voice was the same deep baritone that had whispered against my skin, that had said my name like a prayer, that had told me I was beautiful, that I mattered. Now it was formal, strained, a stranger's voice wearing a familiar costume. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

The gall. The absolute, breathtaking gall of him.

Something cold and hard crystallized in my chest, replacing the shattered pieces of my heart. I felt a smile curve my lips—not warm, not friendly, but the smile of a queen regarding a traitor about to lose his head. I extended my hand, not for him to shake in the casual way Alesso would have, but as royalty would expect a subject to kiss. Let him play his part. I would play mine. Better.

"Signor DeSanti," I said, my voice like chilled steel, proud of how it didn't waver. "The pleasure is all mine."

I saw him flinch as he took my fingers, saw the flash of pain in his eyes as our skin made contact. His touch was electric, a devastating reminder of everything his lie had corrupted and destroyed. I pulled my hand back as if burned, as if his very touch was poison.

"Please, let's sit," Leonardo DeSanti boomed, either ignoring or oblivious to the nuclear fallout happening right in front of him. Or maybe he knew. Maybe this was all part of some sick game.

As we moved to the table, Alessandro leaned in close, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, and his words were for me alone, barely more than a breath. "Bianca, please. Let me explain."

I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes, letting him see the utter contempt I felt burning in mine. I wanted him to see exactly what his betrayal had done, wanted him to feel even a fraction of the pain that was tearing me apart from the inside. "There is nothing you could possibly say that I would ever believe," I whispered, my voice low and venomous. "You are a stranger to me, Signor DeSanti. And you will remain one."

I took my seat, folding my hands neatly in my lap, every movement precise and controlled. Outwardly, I was the picture of composed elegance, the perfect heiress, exactly what everyone expected. Inwardly, I was shattered, a thousand pieces of broken glass held together by nothing but sheer will and fury.

And as I looked at the man across the table—the liar, the fiancé, the ghost—I knew the game had changed completely. He had started it with a lie.

I would finish it on my terms.