Chapter 7 Capetown is calling

Alessandro

The flight to Cape Town was interminable. I sat rigid in my seat, Danillo beside me offering unwanted commentary and even more unwanted whiskey. The sun set over the Atlantic, painting the clouds in shades of blood and fire, and I felt each minute like a countdown to my execution.

When the wheels touched down at Cape Town International Airport, my heart was hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. The terminal was modern and bright, all glass and steel, but I barely registered my surroundings. My entire being was focused on one thing: she was here. Somewhere in this airport, Bianca was waiting.

I moved through customs in a daze, barely aware of Danillo's hand on my elbow guiding me forward. Our luggage was handled by staff; the DeSanti name opened every door, smoothed every process. We were ushered through a private corridor to a VIP lounge.

And there she was.

Bianca stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her silhouette backlit by the brilliant South African sun. She wore white linen trousers and a navy blue silk blouse, her dark hair falling in loose waves down her back. She looked effortlessly elegant, untouchable, every inch the heiress she was born to be. So different from the laughing girl in the sundress who had walked barefoot on the beach beside me.

Her family surrounded her like guards—her father Matteo, tall and imposing; her mother Isabella, beautiful and cold; her brother Marco, watching me with unconcealed hostility. They were a united front, and Bianca stood at the center, isolated even in their midst.

As if sensing my presence, she turned.

Our eyes met across the expanse of polished marble floor, and I felt the air leave my lungs. Her face was perfectly composed, not a flicker of emotion visible, but her eyes—those incredible hazel eyes that had looked at me with such warmth, such trust—were chips of ice. The hatred there was palpable, a living thing that reached across the distance and wrapped cold fingers around my throat.

She knew. Of course she knew. The meeting in Palermo must have happened in the hours before her flight. She had looked across a table and seen Alesso, her beach lover, revealed as Alessandro DeSanti, her arranged fiancé, the man she had been running from.

I had broken her. I could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held herself as if one wrong move would shatter her completely. And the worst part, the part that made bile rise in my throat, was that beneath the hatred I could see the hurt. Raw and bleeding and utterly devastating.

"Alessandro." My father's voice cut through my paralysis. Leonardo had materialized beside me, impeccably dressed despite the long flight, his hand extended toward the Morenas. "Come. It's time."

I forced my feet to move, crossing the lounge with Danilo a step behind. Every step felt like walking to the gallows. Bianca didn't move, didn't react, just watched me approach with those frozen eyes.

"Matteo, Isabella," Leonardo greeted them warmly, as if this were a pleasant social occasion and not a hostage exchange.

The pleasantries were exchanged, voices echoing in the vast space. I barely heard them. I couldn't look away from Bianca. She still hadn't moved, hadn't acknowledged me beyond that first devastating glance.

"And you must be Bianca," Leonardo said smoothly, turning to her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've heard so much about you. May I present my sons Danillo, and Alessandro."

Finally, she moved. Her head turned toward me with mechanical precision, and I felt my heart stop. Up close, I could see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. She had been crying. Recently. Because of me.

"Signor DeSanti," she said, her voice perfectly modulated, empty of all inflection. She extended her hand, not in greeting but as a challenge, her chin lifted in defiance.

"How nice to finally meet you."

The emphasis on

"finally" was a knife between my ribs. I took her hand, and the moment our skin touched, electricity shot through me the same devastating connection that had drawn me to her on that beach. But now it was tainted, corrupted by my lies. Her fingers were ice-cold, and she pulled back almost immediately, as if my touch burned.

"Miss Morena," I managed, my voice rough. "I..."

"Shall we?" she interrupted, turning away from me to address the group at large. "I'm sure we're all eager to get settled after our flights."

"Of course," Leonardo said, amusement flickering in his eyes. He was enjoying this, I realized with sick certainty. My father loved games, loved manipulation, and this was his masterpiece. "The cars are waiting. Alessandro, Bianca, you'll ride together. We have much to discuss."

I saw Bianca stiffen, saw her mother start to protest, but Leonardo was already moving, herding the families toward the exit with the skill of a practiced general. Within moments, I found myself standing beside Bianca, the others several paces ahead, and the silence between us was deafening.

"Bianca," I started, my voice low and urgent. "Please, let me explain..."

"Don't." The single word was sharp as a blade. She still wouldn't look at me.

"Don't say my name. Don't try to explain. There is nothing you could possibly say that would make any of this remotely acceptable."

"I know, but."

"You lied to me." Now she did turn, and the fury in her eyes nearly knocked me backward.

"You knew exactly who I was, and you lied. You let me trust you, you let me—" Her voice caught, and she stopped, visibly pulling herself together. When she spoke again, her voice was deadly calm.

"You're a stranger to me, Signor DeSanti. Whatever you think happened in Positano was a fantasy. It wasn't real."

"It was real," I said fiercely, unable to stop myself. "Everything between us was real, Bianca. The only lie was my name..."

"Your name? Your name?" She laughed, a brittle, broken sound. "You lied about everything. Your identity, your intentions, your feelings—if you even have any. You seduced me knowing I was running from you. You made me believe" She cut herself off again, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters now."

She started walking toward the exit, her stride quick and determined. I followed, desperation clawing at my chest. We reached the waiting cars sleek black SUVs with tinted windows—and a driver opened the rear door of the lead vehicle. Bianca climbed in without hesitation, sliding to the far side of the seat and turning her face toward the window.

I got in beside her, maintaining a careful distance, though the space felt charged with tension. The door closed, sealing us in together, and the driver pulled away from the terminal.

The silence stretched as we drove through Cape Town. I had been here before, knew the city's beauty—Table Mountain rising dramatically against the blue sky, the Atlantic gleaming in the distance—but today I saw none of it. I could only watch Bianca's reflection in the window, the way she held herself so rigidly, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

"I never meant to hurt you," I finally said, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"But you did." Her voice was flat. "Intentionally or not, you did... now we're trapped in this nightmare together."

"It doesn't have to be a nightmare. We connected once, we could—"

"We connected based on a lie." She finally turned to face me, and the devastation in her eyes gutted me. "You want to know what the worst part is, Alessandro? I actually liked you. The man on the beach, I was falling for him. I thought maybe, just maybe, arranged marriage or not, if I had to marry you, it might not be so terrible. I thought we might have a chance." Her laugh was bitter. "But that man doesn't exist, does he? He was just a role you played."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" She leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, when you saw me on that beach, what was your first thought? 'Here's my runaway bride, maybe I'll seduce her for fun?' Did you laugh about it? Did you think it was amusing?"

"No," I said vehemently. "I didn't,I wasn't thinking at all. You were just... you. Beautiful and free and nothing like what I expected. I didn't want the moment to end."

"So you lied."

"So I lied," I admitted. "And I've regretted it every moment since."

"Good." The word was hard, final. "I hope you regret it for the rest of your life.