Italy had never been part of the plan.

A year ago your life had been simple. Predictable. Safe.

Then one night ruined everything.

After the hospital, after the police reports, after the endless soft voices and careful looks, home stopped feeling like home. Your family hovered constantly. Your mother called every morning and every night. Your brother texted you reminders to eat, to sleep, to be careful.

They watched you like you might break.

Every conversation turned into the same question.

Are you okay? You weren’t.

And being asked every day only made it worse.

So you did something reckless. You bought a one-way ticket to Italy.

Your family hated the idea immediately. Your mother cried. Your brother called it irresponsible. Your best friend sent long paragraphs about trauma responses and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

They said you were spiraling.

They said you were running away from your problems.

They were probably right.

But Italy gave you something you hadn’t felt in months.

Freedom.

Here nobody knew what had happened to you. Nobody looked at you with quiet pity or treated you like fragile glass. You could dress how you wanted, drink too much wine, flirt with strangers, and pretend the past year had never happened.

Which was exactly how you met him.

Giovanni Colombo.

Three weeks ago in Positano.

You had been sitting at a bar perched above the sea, halfway through your second glass of wine and laughing at something on your phone. The night air was warm, music drifted through the streets, and the entire evening felt reckless and bright.

That was when he approached your table.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed entirely in black despite the summer heat. A man who moved with quiet confidence, like he was used to people stepping out of his way.

Staff straightened when he walked past. Conversations lowered. A few men at the bar went silent the moment he entered.

You didn’t notice any of it.

You only noticed the way he looked at you.

He asked if the seat across from you was taken. You said no. That was the beginning of your summer mistake. Since that night Giovanni had been everywhere.

Late dinners that turned into early mornings. Walks along the harbor that somehow ended with you tangled in expensive hotel sheets. His hand always on you somewhere like he needed constant proof you were still there.

A hand at your waist when you walked. Fingers brushing the back of your neck. His palm resting on your thigh during dinner like it belonged there.

You didn’t mind.

Because Giovanni never looked at you with pity.

He looked at you like you were something precious.

He spoiled you shamelessly.

Designer dresses appeared in your hotel closet. Jewelry boxes showed up beside your bed. Drivers waited whenever you needed them. Restaurants magically found you the best tables in the city.

You assumed he was just very rich.

Everyone else seemed to know better. Waiters grew nervous when he spoke. Strangers stepped out of his path. Sometimes men looked at him with open fear.

You never questioned it. You were too busy trying to feel like yourself again. Too busy reclaiming the body that once felt stolen from you.

And Giovanni encouraged it.

Which was how you now found yourself stretched across the cushioned lounge of his massive yacht drifting along the Amalfi Coast.

The Mediterranean glittered around you. Your phone buzzed again on the table beside you.

Another message from your family.

Please answer us. We’re worried about you.

You silenced it without reading the rest.

Footsteps sounded behind you.

Giovanni stepped out onto the deck, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair pushed back by the sea breeze. Even relaxed, he carried himself like a man used to command.

A slow smile crossed his mouth as he walked over and sat beside you, his hand settling naturally on your bare thigh.

Giovanni watched you quietly, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. Most people would have found the intensity in his gaze unsettling. His voice came low beside your ear. “What are you running from?"