ELEANOR
The gentle hum of the limo filled the silence as we drove out of the hospital’s compound. I leaned back against the plush seat-the outside world blurring into nothingness-as I stared outside the window, feeling hollow as though a piece of me had just been left behind.
What made it worse was the glimpse of that nurse. I was almost certain she was the one but I couldn’t approach her because Matteo just had to be there like a shadow trailing me everywhere.
The doctor’s words began to replay-like some sort of whisper-in my head. She seemed to be a kind woman-middle-aged with sharp glasses perched on her nose-and her demeanor was assuring as she’d handed me a prescription list, speaking in a tone that made it sound like she genuinely cared.
“You’ll need to take these as directed,” she had said in a tone that was both soft and firm at the same time. “Three times a day after meals. Don’t skip a dose. And also try to get good rest as much as possible.”
Then she’d given me a small, encouraging smile as she prepared an injection. “This will help speed up the recovery process,” she said, swabbing my arm. “You’re lucky. It’s just a fever, nothing too serious. With the right care, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
I’d nodded-pretending to smile back-but inside me I wanted to laugh at how clueless she was. Rest? Care? If only she knew what my life looked like.
There wasn’t a chance in hell I’d get any rest-not in Armando Luca’s house.
Still I clung to the hope that the pills would work even without rest. They’d take longer, sure, but at least I wouldn’t feel like death every morning.
But now, sitting in the car, none of that mattered. All I could think about was my sister. My sweet, innocent little sister who had been in that hospital for months without any family around. How had she coped all this time? I couldn’t help but I wonder.
The guilt clawed at me-sharp and unforgiving-because I had promised to look out for her, to visit her as often as I could. I had sworn to myself that no matter what, I’d protect her. And yet, here I was-helpless and unable to even see her face.
The ride back felt like a blur and I barely noticed the chauffeur driving us through the streets-lost in my own thoughts. I hadn’t even realized how far we’d come until Armando’s mansion loomed in the distance.
My stomach twisted at the sight of it. No matter how many times I left this place-rare as it was-coming back always felt like returning to a cage. The mansion was grand, sure, but to me, it was suffocating. The walls, the silence, the constant pressure of living under Armando’s rules-it was a prison. Each time I walked back in, it felt like I was reliving the moment I first arrived over again-facing the reality that I was going to be there for a while.
As the chauffeur eased the car into the compound and stopped in front of the house, Matteo stepped out-opening the door for Armando before I slowly slid out after him.
Giuseppe was still in the living room when we stepped in. He stood up quickly from the couch-as if he’d been waiting all day for Armando to come back, not saying a word as he moved to take Armando’s coat-hanging it neatly on the rack before stepping aside.
Armando walked deeper into the living room-his stride slow and deliberate-and then stopped near the far wall with his back turned to us. Then he spoke, his voice calm but firm. “You can all leave now. I need some time to think.”
Matteo and Giuseppe left without hesitation. I too turned to head upstairs-eager to get back to my room-but then, Armando said my name.
“Eleanor.”
I froze and my heart stuttered in my chest-pounding so hard that hurt a bit-before picking up speed again. I turned slowly and my stomach sank as I looked at him.
“You’re not to do any hard work until you’re better,” he said, his tone steady but quiet.
I blinked-a little stunned. I mean, did I hear him right? Armando Luca, the man who’d treated me like little more than a tool since the day I arrived, was telling me to take it easy?
I didn’t know what to say. He’d usually shown so little concern that this-this simple, small gesture-felt monumental. It was ridiculous how much it caught me off guard, but still it did.
I swallowed hard trying to find my voice. “Yes,” I said softly, unsure if he even wanted a response.
I hesitated-unsure if I should leave or stay-before finally speaking again. “Would you like me to make you anything?” I asked.
“Yes. Prepare me something for dinner.” he replied in a low but firm tone after was a brief pause.
“Okay,” I said quickly. “Is there anything else you?”
“No,” he said, his tone final. “Just tell me when dinner is ready. Now leave me.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Alright,” I murmured, turning and walking toward the kitchen.
His words replayed in my head as I started gathering ingredients and yet I couldn’t help but feel conflicted. Was this genuine care? Or was this something else? I shook my head trying not to think too deeply about it. I didn’t have the energy to dissect Armando’s motives tonight.
* * * * * * *
I found Armando exactly where I’d left him-in the living room staring into oblivion. The silence was almost unsettling, thick and heavy like the air before a storm as Armando sat in his chair-motionless-with that stiff look on his face. The weight of his presence seemed to fill the entire room.
I stood there quietly for a moment, unsure of how to interrupt whatever thoughts were consuming him. My hands fidgeted at my sides as I tried to summon the courage to speak, but before I could even open my mouth, his voice broke the silence.
“What is it?” His tone low and distant that it startled me.
“Dinner is ready,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the nerves crawling up my spine.
He didn’t look at me, just nodded slightly. “Prepare the dining table for the both of us. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
I blinked, clearly caught off guard by his words. “The both of us?” I asked hesitantly, unsure if I’d misheard.
Armando turned his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on the same distant point. “Yes. Did you not prepare something for yourself to eat?”
“I did,” I admitted quickly. “But I think it’s best that I eat in the kitchen.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said firmly. “Set the table, I’d join you shortly.”
There was no room for argument in his tone, so I simply nodded. “Alright.”
I left the living room and headed to the dining room, setting the table for two. It felt strange, almost foreign, preparing a meal to eat alongside him. This wasn’t how things usually went, but today… today had already been far from normal.
Armando walked in by the time I finished, his steps were slow and deliberate as if each one carried a weight only he could feel. His face looked different-haunted, almost-as though the reality of his loss had finally sunk in.
I sat down in the chair beside him-the same arrangement as the last time we had shared a meal-and my heart raced as he began to open his plate, my mind racing with all the ways this could go wrong.
He picked up his fork and took a bite, then another, then a third, and then I exhaled softly, the tension in my chest easing ever so slightly. Yes he didn’t say anything about the food, but the absence of criticism felt like a small victory.
The silence stretched between us as we ate, the clinking of silverware the only sound in the room. I stole glances at him as I ate, trying to piece together what might be going through his mind.
I thought back to the events of the day-how he’d knocked on my door instead of barging in, how he’d taken me to the hospital, how he’d told me to rest and recover-and it was all so unlike him, this strange semblance of care. For a man who had built a wall of cruelty and control around himself, these small actions felt monumental.
Maybe there was really some good in this man, buried deep beneath the surface. Or maybe I was just fooling myself.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I swallowed hard, deciding to say something.
The words hung in the air like a fragile thread, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me. Then, he just stopped chewing. His movements became slow as he placed his fork and knife down on the plate, the sound of the metal against porcelain sharp and final.
“Thank you,” he said after a pause, his voice flat and sarcastic.
I opened my mouth to say something more, but before I could, he pushed his chair back and stood up.
“Are you not eating anymore?” I asked quickly, my voice tinged with worry.
He glanced at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving me alone at the table.
I stared at his plate which was still a bit full and my stomach churned. The words I’d meant as comfort had clearly done the opposite. Maybe I should’ve just kept quiet.
His absence lingered, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d done something wrong-or if he was simply beyond anyone’s reach, lost in his own grief.