A nurse came in minutes later.
“Mrs. De Luca?” she asked gently. “Do you need anything?”
“Privacy,” I said. My voice sounded calm to my own ears, almost detached. “And I need to use the restroom.”
She nodded, helping me move, checking the lines, fussing with the blanket. When she finally left again, promising to return in ten minutes, I exhaled and reached for my purse.
My phone was inside.
My fingers trembled as I unlocked it. There were messages—missed calls, worried texts from friends I barely spoke to anymore, socialites who knew the right words to send but would never step into a De Luca storm. I ignored them all.
I opened my contacts and scrolled to a name I hadn’t touched in years.
Isabella Valenti.
My mother.
A woman who left me behind to survive her own war, who fled to Europe and rebuilt her life among people who wore silk smiles and hid sharp knives in their sleeves. We hadn’t spoken since my wedding. On that day, she had stood at the back of the cathedral in a black dress and pearls, her expression unreadable, and she had only said one thing to me before she disappeared again.
If you ever need a way out, call me. But if you call, be sure. Because I don’t rescue people who plan to run back.
At the time, I’d hated her for it. For the coldness. For the distance. For not fighting harder to keep me from becoming a De Luca.
Now, I understood.
I stared at her number for a long moment, then pressed call.
It rang once. Twice.
My breath caught on the third ring.
“Hello?” Her voice was smooth, accented by years abroad. Controlled. Familiar in a way that hurt.
For a second, I couldn’t speak. The grief, the rage, the shock threatened to choke me.
“Elena?” she said, sharper now. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Silence on the line, then her tone softened—only slightly. “What happened?”
I swallowed. “I lost the baby.”
A sound came through the phone that wasn’t quite a gasp, not quite a curse. Just raw, restrained emotion breaking through her control.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, and hearing it—sweetheart, a word she used when I was small—nearly cracked my ribs open.
“I heard him,” I said. The words came faster now, as if once I started I couldn’t stop. “I heard Marco. He doesn’t care. He never did. He said he didn’t want the child. He said he only needed me for the transfer. He’s keeping me trapped, and I—” My voice shook. “I can’t breathe in that family anymore.”
The line went very still.
“Are you asking me for help?” my mother asked.
I closed my eyes. I pictured Marco’s face, the way he looked at me like I was a possession that had learned to speak. I pictured Bianca’s smirk behind him, waiting for my grief to make space for her victory. I pictured my son, lost before I ever held him.
“Yes,” I said. “I need out.”
“If I help you,” she said, each word measured, “you will not go back. Do you understand me, Elena? This isn’t a dramatic separation. It’s not a lovers’ fight. If you leave a De Luca, you’re declaring war. They will come for you.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I’m done being afraid of what they’ll do to me. They already took everything.”
Another pause.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In the private wing,” I said. “Guarded.”
“Of course you are,” she murmured, and I heard the old bitterness in her voice, like she’d always known what kind of cage I’d married into. “Do you have your passport?”
“It’s at the house,” I said.
“I can get you new papers if I have to,” she replied. “But it’s easier if you can get the original. Can you walk?”
“Not far,” I admitted.
“Then you’ll need someone to move you without raising alarms,” she said.
I thought of the guards. The nurses. The doctors paid by De Luca money. I couldn’t trust anyone in that building except the woman I was speaking to now, and even that trust felt like stepping onto thin ice.
“I can pretend,” I said quietly. “I can pretend I’m… broken enough to comply.”
“Good,” she said, voice turning sharp again. “Pretend. Smile. Let them think you’re grateful. Let them think you’ve been tamed.”
My stomach twisted, but I nodded even though she couldn’t see it.
“I’ll arrange a route,” she continued. “A car. A safe house. Somewhere Marco won’t find you easily.”
“And if he does?” I asked.
Her response came without hesitation.
“Then we make sure he regrets ever touching you.”
The nurse’s footsteps approached in the hall. My pulse jumped.
“She’s coming back,” I whispered.
“Listen to me,” my mother said quickly. “Do not move until I tell you. Do not tip your hand. And Elena—” Her voice softened, just for a second. “I’m sorry it took tragedy for you to call.”
The ache in my chest tightened.
“I’ll wait,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “I’ll call you when it’s time.”
I ended the call and slid the phone back into my purse just as the door opened.
The nurse stepped in with a gentle smile. “How are you feeling?”
I turned my face toward her and pulled my expression into something weak and compliant, something that belonged to the woman Marco thought he owned.
“Tired,” I said softly. “Just… tired.”
And it wasn’t even a lie.
