sovbooks Chapter 265: Consolation.
Chapter 265: Consolation.
Chapter 265
KATYA POV
(Romeo pov at the end )
—six months—
"Katya—Katya—KATYA!"
The whisper-shout sliced through the quiet night like a crime in progress, sharp and urgent and entirely Chiara.
I froze mid-step, heart leaping straight into my throat as the rest of her threat followed in a furious hiss.
"Katya, if you don’t hurry up, I’m leaving you, and if you get lost, I’m telling Nonna you ran away with a fisherman!"
Panic jolted me into motion.
I burst out of the side door before I could think better of it, my bare feet skimming over the cool stone path as I hurried toward the familiar black car idling just beyond the gates.
The night air brushed against my skin, carrying the faint scent of the garden and the distant hush of the sea.
Chiara leaned halfway out of the driver’s window, hair already half-destroyed by the wind, curls escaping their pins like they were staging a rebellion of their own.
She looked ridiculous and breathtaking all at once, wrapped in a sleek brown gown that hugged her frame perfectly, the fabric catching moonlight every time she shifted, every time she breathed.
It shimmered against her skin like it belonged there—like she belonged everywhere.
She saw me and grinned like she’d just won something. "There you are," she hissed. "I was two seconds away from honking, but that would get us caught, wouldn’t it?"
"Do you want to die?" I shot back, breathless as I reached the car, one hand bracing against the door. "Nonna would hear that from her dreams."
Chiara waved me off dramatically, already dismissing my concern. I rolled my eyes, the tension easing just a little, and glanced down at myself instinctively, smoothing my hands over the dark gown I wore.
It was short and flowing, the skirt fluttering softly against my thighs with every small movement I made.
The fabric dipped just enough at the back to feel daring without feeling wrong, brushing the edge of a confidence I was still learning how to hold.
My hair was loose tonight, curls falling freely down my shoulders, soft and wild, covering all my scars the way I wanted it to be. My skin was warm from the lingering heat of the day, nerves buzzing beneath.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have dared. I wouldn’t have dreamt of wearing something so revealing—something that felt like a declaration—something I once believed would tell the world how much I had been reduced to. How much pain I had gone through.
But now, I climbed into the car without looking back. Chiara’s eyes flicked over me appreciatively, "Okay! but excuse me.." she said, lips curving, "...who allowed you to look like that?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks instantly. "You did," I mumbled. "You picked the dress."
"True," she conceded, already starting the car. "But still. Rude of you."
The engine purred to life and we rolled away from the mansion quietly, the gates slipping closed behind us like a secret being kept—like something precious we weren’t meant to share.
Six months.
Six months since I’d walked away from Romeo’s world and never looked back. Six months of unanswered calls from Michael—his name long muted on my phone, his voice reduced to a silence I’d learned how to live with, how to breathe around.
Six months of Italy.
Of mornings that smelled like coffee and warm bread drifting through open windows. Of afternoons spent wandering streets without being watched, without flinching at every shadow.
Of laughter that didn’t feel borrowed or fragile. Of Chiara—loud, unapologetic Chiara—who had somehow become my safest place without ever trying to cage me.
She was the one who had looked at my scars and told me I was beautiful, who had called me a survivor without pity, who had sworn I was stronger than anyone she had ever met.
I leaned back in my seat as Chiara sped onto the road, music already blasting low and conspiratorial, the city lights stretching out ahead of us like an invitation.
I no longer braced myself when she accelerated. I no longer startled at sudden sounds. Compliments no longer made my stomach knot—they warmed instead, settled somewhere steady inside my chest.
I spoke without rehearsing every word in my head. I laughed without checking if it was allowed.
Elena had given birth to a boy last month, and since then Nonna’s sharp, watchful eyes had softened—her attention pulled elsewhere, her worry shared. It meant Chiara and I could slip out like this, unchaperoned, unafraid, without feeling someone’s concern breathing down our necks.
"So," she said, eyes glittering with mischief. "Beach party. At night. Illegal bonfire. Questionable people. Potentially terrible decisions."
My lips curved upward before I could stop it, the smile surprising me with how natural it felt. "You’re really selling it."
"You’re coming anyway."
I glanced out the window as the city lights blurred past, the night wide and open before us, full of things I hadn’t ruined yet.
And I was damned sure I wouldn’t.
********************************************
ROMEO POV
Crack.
"Twenty."
The sound of leather meeting flesh echoed through the chamber, followed by a scream that tore itself raw before it broke apart into hoarse gasps.
Crack.
"Twenty-one." I didn’t flinch. The room I stood in was silent, sealed off by thick glass that ran from floor to ceiling, polished so clean it barely reflected me back.
From here, I could see everything without being touched by it. Without being smelled by it. Without being seen.
That had always been the point. On the other side of the glass, the floor was darkened, slick in places where blood had soaked in and refused to dry.
Not fresh anymore. Old. Layered. The kind that said this hadn’t started tonight.
That maid—Gina was on her knees.
Her hands were bound behind her back, shoulders trembling with the effort of staying upright.
Her head hung low now, hair plastered to her face, breaths coming in shallow, broken pulls. The woman, Elly holding the whip didn’t hesitate.
Elly was one of my most loyal and precise employee. The whip snapped again.
"Twenty-two." Gina screamed this time. No words. No begging. Just sound. Raw and useless.
In the far corner of the room, Marina lay curled into herself, arms wrapped around her head, her body shaking with silent sobs.
She hadn’t screamed in a while. Shock had taken care of that. Her face was swollen, split at the lip, eyes unfocused as she stared at nothing.
Good. I watched it, taking this as the only consolation to my bruised heart, my hand lifted and I dragged in a smoke.
Six months.
Six months since Katya had vanished from my house like she’d never existed. Six months since the halls stopped echoing with her footsteps.
Six months since those golden, terrified eyes had looked at me like I was something inevitable.
Six months of silence.
The whip cracked again. "Twenty-three."
The useless maid’s body gave out. She collapsed forward, catching herself just before her face hit the floor, shoulders heaving violently.
Blood streaked her arms, her back—a mess of red lines crossing over one another like a map of her mistakes.
She deserved every mark. Every fucking single one of them, I thanked the stars she didn’t say that day Katya had stabbed her.
She had touched Katya in cruelty. That was unforgivable. I leaned closer to the glass, my reflection finally faintly visible—eyes dark, expression unreadable.
"She stopped," I said calmly, my voice carrying through the intercom.
Elly froze instantly, whip lowering. I pressed the button again. "Turn her face up." Elly obeyed, grabbing Gina by the hair and forcing her head back.
Her eyes met the glass.
Met me. Whatever hope she’d been clinging to died right there.
"How does it feel?" Gina tried to speak. Nothing came out but blood and breath.
I tilted my head. "Not enough?." I let the silence stretch until it hurt more than the whip ever could. I glanced briefly to the corner, where Marina flinched at the sound of my voice, shrinking further into herself.
Six months ago, Katya had knelt on floors like this. Trembled like this. Bled like this.
And now she was gone. I straightened slowly, jaw tightening not in grief, I had done that every night.
In control.
"Continue," I said. The whip rose again and as the next scream tore through the room, the only thing I could see—clearer than the blood, clearer than the punishment—were golden eyes that no longer looked at me.
And the silence she’d left behind.