Captive Princess

Kneeling in front of the computer, staring at the damning video files, I took out my phone and dialed Don Romano's number.

"Father," I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.

"What is it? I thought you were disowning me," his voice was cold and surprised.

"I just have one question. Three years ago, did Vincent offer to discipline me?"

There were a few seconds of telling silence on the other end of the line.

"How did you know?"

I closed my eyes. "So it's true."

"Vincent offered me a two-hundred-million-dollar port project in exchange for the chance to take you under his wing," Don Romano's voice was mercilessly pragmatic. "I didn't know how you'd offended him, but I figured a little education wouldn't hurt you. So I agreed."

I hung up.

The last sliver of hope I didn't even know I was holding onto was gone.

Vincent got close to me, slept with me, controlled me—it was all for revenge. For Isabella.

I started to laugh again. Quietly at first, then louder and louder, a hysterical sound that filled the sterile, secret room.

I laughed until the tears came, until I couldn't breathe.

When I was finally spent, I wiped my eyes and stood up.

I went to the master bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I had already packed.

From the nightstand drawer, I took my passport and the plane ticket to Boston.

I took one last look around the room, this place I had once foolishly thought was my home.

In the living room, I picked up the solid gold lighter from Vincent's cigar box.

It was the first gift he had ever given me. I had thought it meant something special.

Now I knew it was nothing more than a hunter's mark on his prey.

I flicked it open. The flame danced in the dim light.

Then I tossed it onto the heavy silk curtains.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, devouring every memory, every lie, every ghost in this house.

I dragged my suitcase to the door and looked back at the room, now illuminated by the growing, hungry flames.

Goodbye, Vincent.

Goodbye, to the girl I used to be.

Half an hour later, the wail of fire trucks filled the affluent neighborhood.

I sat on my suitcase on the sidewalk across the street, watching it all unfold.

The flames licked at the night sky, turning it a hellish red.

Soon, a black car screeched to a halt. Vincent jumped out, his face turning to a mask of stone as he saw the inferno that was once his home.

He looked around frantically, his eyes searching, and they finally landed on me.

"Sophia!" he yelled, running toward me. "Are you hurt?!"

I just looked at him, silent.

"Why did you burn the house? Fine, burn it. Does it make you feel better now, Principessa?" Vincent’s voice was laced with a weary exasperation.

I remained silent, stood up, and started to walk away, pulling my suitcase behind me.

Vincent blocked my path. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"I'll take you back to the Romano estate," he said, pulling out his phone. "Marco, get the car ready."

"No need," I said, stepping around him.

Vincent's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and his expression darkened further.

"I have an urgent meeting. Marco will take you home," he told me, his tone clipped and authoritative. "We'll talk about this later."

I ignored him and walked toward a cab waiting at the corner.

"Sophia," Vincent called out, his voice sharp.

I looked back at him over my shoulder.

"Stay home and wait for me. I have something I need to tell you." With that, he got in his car and sped off.

I watched his taillights disappear into the night and whispered to the empty air,

"We'll never see each other again."

I got into the cab and told the driver to take me to the airport.

On the way, I opened my mobile banking app, calculated the total amount of Vincent's money I had spent over the last three years, and transferred it all back to him.

Medical bills, living expenses, everything. It came to eight hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars.

Once the transfer was complete, I threw my phone out the window.

Watching it shatter on the pavement, I felt a profound wave of relief.

From now on, Vincent Romano would never be able to contact me again.

An hour later, the cab pulled up to JFK Airport.

I dragged my suitcase toward the departures gate.

"Ma'am, your flight is boarding in thirty minutes," a staff member informed me.

I nodded and sat down in the waiting area.

Through the large window, I could see several private jets on the tarmac.

One of them was preparing for takeoff. I saw Vincent's unmistakable silhouette walking up the stairs.

He must be heading to Chicago for that urgent meeting.

"Now boarding for Boston," the announcement came over the speakers.

I stood up and took one last look at his private jet.

Our story is over, Vincent.

On the plane, I chose a window seat.

As we taxied, I saw two planes on the runway, pointed in opposite directions.

One flying to Chicago, one to Boston.

Just like our lives. Heading on different paths, never to cross again.