Lyla Rose

________

I sob louder, my body trembling as I hear footsteps approaching. Suddenly, the door slams open and Carter Ricci strides in, Vincent's uncle, the mafia king. He strides toward me with purpose, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes everything else fade. In one swift movement, he scoops me up into his strong, muscular arms.

"Step back," he warns the guards coldly, his voice commanding. The air shifts, thick with his presence. He turns his gaze toward Vincent, growling, "You're no longer my nephew. You're no longer part of the Ricci empire."

Vincent's face turns red with rage as he yells, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Carter?"

Carter's voice is low, deadly, as he responds, "I'm taking what's rightfully mine, away from this goddamn palace, and away from you."

I can barely breathe, my body on the verge of collapse from the emotional stress and the drugs still coursing through my veins. I limp in Carter's arms, unable to hold myself up. He holds me, his grip firm but gentle against his chest. He presses a kiss to my forehead, soothing me in his arms as he turns and walks away from Vincent, not looking back.

"She's not going back to you, ever again, Vincent," Carter says coldly, carrying me out of the room and into the waiting black sedan. The cool air hits me as the car pulls away. The journey feels endless, my vision darkening and I faint in Carter's lap.

-----

Hours later, I wake with a start in a massive, luxurious bedroom. The silk black sheets on the oversized bed feel foreign beneath my skin. I try to make sense of what happened, but the confusion is overwhelming. I glance around and spot him, Carter Ricci, sitting in an armchair, a cigar resting between his fingers. The room smells faintly of smoke.

The reality hits me hard. I'm divorced. Abandoned by Vincent for being infertile. Alone. But why would Carter, his own uncle, bring me here?

My throat is dry, aching. "Water." I whisper weakly, my voice barely audible.

He puts out the cigar quickly, stands and walks toward the bed. He sits beside me, his presence like a weight I can't escape. Gently, he lifts my head, his rough hands surprisingly careful as he brings a glass of water to my lips. "Shh, drink slowly, princessa," he murmurs, his voice low and steady.

I sit up, my hands trembling as I take the glass. I sip quietly, my body weak. His eyes never leave me, intense, almost possessive, as if he's studying me.

Once I finish drinking, he takes the glass from my hands and sets it down on the nightstand. He's only wearing black boxers, his tattooed body on full display. His muscles are lean, his dark hair messy. His presence is commanding, his gaze sharp. He's tall, almost 6'4". And here I am, on his bed, utterly lost.

"Do you remember anything?" he asks, his voice softer now, but the same unyielding power in it.

I close my eyes, trying to push the memory of Vincent away, but it floods back. The betrayal. Maria. The drugs. The papers.

"He married Maria," I choke out, my voice trembling. "He drugged me, made me sign the divorce papers, because I'm infertile." My words break, and I sob again, the pain overwhelming.

___________

Carter Ricci

__________

My jaw clenches at the mention of Maria's name. I hate that bitch, but I hate my fucking nephew more. Vincent deserves everything that's coming to him. I pull Rose into my arms, letting her cry against my chest, feeling the tremors in her body. I hate seeing her like this. I hate the pain she's carrying, pain caused by my nephew.

"Stop crying, Rose," I murmur, my voice low, almost gentle, as I stroke her hair, trying to soothe her even though my own anger boils beneath the surface.

She sobs harder, trembling against me and pulling away slightly. She wipes her face, but her hands shake. Her voice cracks as she speaks, "I want to go back to London."

Her words hit me like a punch, a quiet plea that twists something inside me. The last thing I want is for her to feel abandoned, and even less so for her to leave. My grip tightens around her waist, pulling her back against me before she can pull further away. I look down at her, my dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes the air thick between us.

"No," I say simply, my voice low and commanding, as I watch a tear fall down her cheek, each drop like a knife to my chest. My stubbled jaw ticks as I fight the urge to hold her tighter, to tell her that I would never let her go. But I can't say that, not yet. Instead, I watch her, my expression hardening, and repeat, my voice firmer now, "You're not going anywhere."

________

Lyla Rose

________

"Why not?" I ask, wiping my face. I was born in London and raised in an orphanage. I worked hard to rent an apartment, coding for a software company. It helped me cope with being alone, with surviving in a world that didn't care. But I was stupid, stupid for coming to Italy, stupid for falling in love with Vincent, the man who shattered my heart so easily. Now I have nothing left here. I know I have to go back. Away from this hell. Away from people who never chose me.

Carter's hand shoots out, gripping my chin firmly, forcing me to meet his heated gaze. His dark eyes blaze with something I can't quite decipher: obsession, hunger, possessiveness, all tangled together. It's all too much, too intense.

"You have me," he growls, his thumb tracing my bottom lip roughly, his touch sending a strange jolt through me. "London is behind you now, Rose."

I feel my chest tighten, the weight of his words pressing down on me. London? Behind me? Can it really be that easy to leave everything I've ever known?

"You're his uncle, his blood," I snap, frustration bubbling up. "Why should I trust you? Besides, I'm your nephew's ex-wife. I don't have any reason to be with you." I try to pull away from him, my heart racing with a mix of fear and anger, but he doesn't let me.

In one swift motion, he forces me to straddle him, his hands gripping my hips as he leans back against the headboard. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

He smirks darkly, his hands possessively holding me in place. The smell of his cigarette-laced breath fans over my face, mingling with the heat between us. "Because, unlike that piece of shit nephew of mine, I actually give a fuck about you," he growls. His voice drops, low and almost threatening, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Let go of me," I whimper, struggling slightly, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens painfully around my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel something hard pressing against me through his boxers, and it sends a wave of discomfort and confusion over me.

"Make me," he dares, his dark eyes challenging me to fight back, to resist him.

Lyla Rose

________

I grip his shoulders, trying to steady myself as the lingering effects of the drug make my body feel weak. The world around me feels hazy, and I can't find the strength to fight back. I should protest, I know, but my heart still aches too much, and deep down, there's a part of me that's just grateful Carter brought me here, away from that hell.

His gaze softens just a little, though his grip on me remains firm. "Stop moving before I do something we'll both regret," he says, his voice low and dangerous, like a warning. "You're in no state to fight me right now."

I don't reply, my body trembling as I try to regain some composure. The words linger, but I can't muster the energy to argue. So, I relent, finally resting my head on his chest, my body exhausted, my mind foggy. "Thank you for taking me away from there..." My voice cracks, heartbroken. "They were going to lock me up in the basement."

His expression softens, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek gently. "I would burn down that whole fucking palace before I let them lock you up," he murmurs, his voice thick with protectiveness. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip with an almost tender touch. "You're too precious to be kept in a cage."

I blink up at him, confusion swirling inside me, but the exhaustion weighs heavily on my chest. I'm too tired to question him, too worn out to try and understand why he's saying any of this. At least someone thinks differently. At least someone cares.

He shifts, pulling me more securely against him, and leans back against the headboard. His phone buzzes, but he ignores it, his focus solely on me. "You're hungry?" he asks quietly, his thumb still tracing my lips gently. The scent of expensive cigars and leather surrounds me, mixing with the strange calm that has settled between us. "Tell me what you want, and I'll have it sent up."

"Anything... I'll eat anything," I whisper weakly, my voice barely audible as I sit in his lap, the dizziness still clouding my thoughts.

His jaw tightens at my weak whisper and without hesitation, he presses a button on the bedside phone. "Send up pasta carbonara and tiramisu immediately." His deep voice commands the kitchen staff before hanging up. His hands automatically start rubbing soothing circles on my back, his touch almost calming. "Eat everything," he orders, his voice soft but firm.

"I don't feel okay," I whisper, feeling a wave of restlessness churn inside me. I squirm slightly, trying to adjust myself, but everything feels off, like I can't find comfort anywhere.

His hands tighten around my hips, stopping my restless movement. "Rose," he says, his tone turning serious and commanding. "You're making me crazy with all this movement. Just sit still for five fucking minutes until the food gets here." There's anger in his voice, but his touch remains gentle, as if trying to soothe me.

I whimper, feeling the pressure in my lower abdomen as I shift again, trying to get comfortable, but something hard presses against me. I push him back slightly, squirming in discomfort.

His face hardens as I continue to move. "Stop fucking moving," he growls, his hands sliding up to grip my hips firmly, pressing me down harder onto him. "You're not helping the situation," he mutters, his voice low, almost a warning. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin. "Sit still."

I look up at him with hooded eyes, my chest tight, and there's a knock on the door. The staff enters, pushing a trolley with trays of food.

His jaw clenches as he keeps his hands firm on my hips to hold me in place. "Leave it on the table," he commands, his voice unwavering. "And get out." The staff quickly obey, setting the food down and closing the door behind them.

I feel sick, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. "I feel like throwing up," I whisper weakly, unable to ignore the sudden dizziness that swirls inside me. But he doesn't move, doesn't let go. His eyes remain focused on me.

He picks up a glass of cold orange juice and makes me drink it, his touch gentle but firm. I sip slowly, letting the cool liquid settle in my stomach. He doesn't say anything, but his gaze softens as I start to calm down a little.

Once I've finished, he gently lifts me off his lap and sets me down on the bed, standing up and grabs a plate of pasta. "Eat," he orders, his tone firm but not unkind. He sits back down beside me with his own plate. "Slowly."

I grab the fork, my fingers trembling, struggling to grip the pasta. The effort feels exhausting, my muscles weak, and the simple task seems impossible.

He watches me, his brows furrowing in frustration, his eyes hardening. "Let me," he says gruffly, and takes the fork from my trembling hand. Without a word, he begins feeding me, forcing me to eat slowly, carefully. "You're shaking too much," he mutters, his voice softer than before, though there's still an edge to it.

I feel strange, the unfamiliar warmth of his hands and the food filling me, but it doesn't feel right. I whimper slightly, the discomfort too much. Despite everything, I manage to take another small bite.

He continues feeding me, ignoring my quiet whimpers, his attention fixed on getting food into my mouth. "Drink some more juice," he orders, handing me the glass, his gaze steady, unwavering. "And eat the damn tiramisu. You love it." He sets the plate of dessert in front of me.

"How do you know?" I pout and take a small bite of tiramisu. It's rich and sweet, and to my surprise, it actually makes me feel a little better.

He smirks slightly, his gaze sharp as he watches me. "I pay attention," he murmurs, his tone almost teasing. He leans in, his eyes dark. "See? I told you it would make you feel better." He reaches forward, his thumb brushing gently over the corner of my mouth where a spot of cream has smeared. "Messy."

Lyla Rose

________

I blink, my throat tight. "How... do you know what I like?" I repeat, my voice quiet, almost questioning. "You're my ex-husband's uncle. You shouldn't know about me... And what should I call you now?" I shrug my tiny shoulders.

His expression hardens, and his hand drops from my face. His jaw clenches as he takes a moment to process my words. "Call me Carter," he says firmly, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. "And don't fucking remind me that you were married to that piece of shit." His eyes narrow, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I want to kill him every time I think about it."

I fall silent at his words, unsure what to say. The quiet that falls between us feels heavy, but his words... they almost make me feel like someone sees me, like someone feels the same fury I do. Still, the weight of everything, the betrayal, my loneliness sits in my chest like a stone.

"Vincent never deserved you," he says bluntly, his voice low and dangerous. He presses a soft kiss to my temple, his breath warm against my skin. "You know that, right?"

I stay silent, unsure how to respond. My heart is still raw and his words, though comforting, feel distant. The pain of what I lost is too overwhelming. I don't have anything left to say, not when I'm still hurting this much.

__________

Carter Ricci

__________

I respect her silence and do not push for a response. Her quietness speaks volumes, and I'm not one to disturb that. Instead, I pick up her empty plate and set it aside, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders, wrapping her in a softness she hasn't known in far too long.

Then, I notice it, the ring still on her finger. Vincent's ring.

"You're still wearing his ring," I say quietly, trying not to sound accusatory.

She doesn't respond, her fingers tense as I gently slide it off her hand. Without hesitation, I throw it onto the floor.

The sound of the diamond wedding band hitting the floor is sharp, final. A satisfying clatter. I stare at it for a moment, my jaw clenching as I look at the symbol of betrayal. I bring my foot down hard, crushing it under the heel of my expensive dress shoe.

"Good fucking riddance," I mutter under my breath, my gaze flicking back to her finger, the skin raw from where that damn thing had bound it.

She stays silent. I can see it in her eyes; she finds me strange, but there's something in her that holds her back from saying anything.

After a long moment, she shifts uncomfortably, breaking the silence. "Uhh... Can I have a shower?" Her voice is awkward and uncertain.

I pause, my gaze snapping up to meet hers. "Shower?" I repeat, my tone controlled, the weight of the moment heavier than it should be.

I stand, moving toward the en-suite bathroom without waiting for a response, my steps deliberate. "You can have whatever you want, tesoro," I call over my shoulder, turning the water on, letting the steam fill the room.

_________

Lyla Rose

________

"What should I wear?" I ask, rising slowly, my body still weighed down. I walk toward the walk-in closet and pull the door open. My eyes widen as I look in the closet; lingerie, dresses, shorts, gowns, every piece in my size, stacked and hanging, filling the space. I frown, unsure what to make of it. These can't be for me, can they?

Carter's always been single. Vincent used to joke about his "virgin uncle" Carter. So whose clothes are these?

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat when I hear his footsteps behind me.

He leans against the doorframe, watching my confusion with amusement.

"Those are all for you," he says, circling his arms over his chest. "I might be single, but I'm not a fucking idiot. I knew you'd need clothes eventually."

My eyes widen and I turn slowly to face him. "You... bought it?" I ask in disbelief.

He laughs lightly, walking into the closet with me. His presence is commanding as he looks around, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

"I bought it for you. It was delivered this morning. And I have excellent taste in women's clothing. You'll find everything you need in here, lingerie, dresses, jeans, swimwear..." His voice trails off as he stops in front of a rack of expensive lingerie sets.

I feel my face flush slightly, my mind racing. How does he know my size? Why would he even care?

He smirks at my blush, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he reaches out to touch a delicate sapphire blue lingerie set. The lace is soft and inviting, and I can't help but feel embarrassed.

"I have my ways," he says cryptically, his voice low and teasing. He looks back at me, his expression shifting to something more serious. "You can wear whatever you want, tesoro."

I swallow hard, suddenly self-conscious about choosing lingerie in front of him.

He notices my discomfort and chuckles darkly, stepping closer until he's towering over me, his presence overpowering.

"You're embarrassed to pick out underwear in front of me?" His voice drops to a low murmur. "Yet you just spent the last hour sitting on my cock."

I freeze, my heart racing as I process his words. The blush on my face deepens, and I feel the weight of his gaze on me, making my skin burn with heat. He's right. He made me sit on his lap earlier, and I was too weak to protest.

Before I can respond, he grabs a simple black silk set with delicate lace trim and hands it to me.

"Here. This one."

I can't help but almost snatch the lingerie from his hand. I hide it behind my back, trying to shield myself from his gaze.

He watches me hide the lingerie, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Go shower before I decide to join you and wash your back myself." His tone is teasing, but the underlying seriousness in his voice makes me blush even deeper. "And don't lock the bathroom door."

I stand there for a moment, unsure what to say. I just want to be alone, to clear my head. "Uh... a dress?" I ask softly, reaching for a tiny white spaghetti-strap dress hanging on a nearby rack.

He steps closer, his eyes fixed on me. "You can wear that," he growls. "It's fucking tiny."

The comment makes me feel self-conscious. I grab the dress and spin away, hurrying to the en-suite bathroom.

Inside, the warm water from the shower soothes my skin but does nothing for the ache in my chest. I close my eyes, trying to shut everything else out, but my thoughts are consumed by Vincent, how easily he discarded me, as if our six-month marriage meant nothing.

The pain is suffocating. How quickly he moved on, how easily he found someone new. How easily a woman can be thrown away just for being infertile. I can't stop the tears from falling, even as I try to push the thoughts away. The weight of it all; his betrayal, his lies, presses down on me, threatening to crush me completely.