"Are you girls both on control pills?" Andrea mocked Raffaele, imitating his tone with exaggerated disdain. "Who the fuck does he think he is? Honestly, I wanted to punch him square in the face. That same face that judged my appearance in the dining hall."

"Andrea, calm down." I nudged her toward the bed, gently coaxing her to sit down. "First of all, you're already in enough trouble with Dad for challenging him and Matteo in front of all the guests. And second, wasn't his judgment the whole point of wearing that dress?"

"Yes, but the way he looked at me, like I was a nuisance... God, I wanted to strangle him!" she fumed, making an exaggerated gesture with her hands, mimicking the act of choking someone.

I couldn't help but laugh at her dramatics. "They were being civil, Andrea. You practically provoked Raffaele with your attitude. He was quiet and trying to be respectful, but you treated them like they were beneath you."

She sighed, frustration still simmering beneath her surface. "I know. Maybe not answering that question was rude, but can you really blame me? You know what I've been through. You know how hard it is for me to trust men. I still don't believe they'll treat us kindly after marriage. Right now, it's all a facade. Once we're in their territory, nothing will stop them from hurting us."

Andrea's words hit home. Her past was a heavy burden, one I couldn't dismiss. Her biological father had been abusive, a violent drunk who terrorized her and her mother. Her mother had died trying to protect her, and even after Andrea had been adopted, her life hadn't gotten much better. Her adoptive family wasn’t the safe haven she had hoped for. I understood why she had such difficulty trusting men; her fear wasn't unfounded.

"I get it," I said softly. "I really do. But we don't know for sure. Michael was respectful to me, at least in the short time we’ve known each other. He hasn’t done anything yet to make me think otherwise."

Andrea shook her head. "But that's the thing, isn't it? 'Yet.' It's easy to be kind when you're on their terms, in your home, where you still have a say. But what about when we're married? Once we're living with them, completely in their territory, what’s stopping them from turning into monsters? Men like that... they can hide behind a nice face, but you never really know what they're capable of."

Her words sent a chill down my spine. She was right. Even though Michael had been kind to me, I couldn’t shake the fear that it might all change once we were married. The thought of being alone with him, especially when it came to something as intimate as sex, terrified me. The memory of my stepbrother’s attempted assault still haunted me, creeping into my dreams, turning them into nightmares. I hadn’t been able to stop him before—how could I stop a man I barely knew if he ever decided to force himself on me?

I swallowed hard, fear creeping up my throat. "I'm scared too," I admitted quietly. "I don't know if I can ever trust him. Or any man.

Suddenly, a sharp knock cut through our conversation, slicing the air with tension. My stomach sank. I already knew who it was, and so did Andrea. Her face hardened, bracing for what was to come. It was time for her punishment, the inevitable consequence of provoking him earlier.

The door swung open before Andrea could fully turn the handle, and Dad stormed in like a hurricane, seething with anger. Without hesitation, he grabbed Andrea by the hair and yanked her back with brutal force. Her body jerked backward, and he threw her to the ground like she was weightless. A swift kick followed, his heavy boot slamming into her ribs with a sickening thud.

Andrea didn’t make a sound, didn’t flinch, but I saw the pain ripple through her as she held her blank, unbothered expression. It was a mask she wore well, as if pretending it didn’t hurt could somehow make it true. But I knew better. I’d seen those bruises before, watched her body try to heal from the same blows, only for new ones to replace them before the old wounds could fully fade.

She pulled herself to her feet, slow and deliberate, her eyes steely with restraint. I knew she could fight back—she was strong enough—but she wouldn’t. Not with me in the room. Andrea never fought him, never defended herself, because she didn’t want me caught in the crossfire. She could take the pain if it meant keeping me safe. It was a sacrifice she made every single time.

"How dare you provoke me in front of them like that?" Dad’s voice thundered through the room, his face red with rage.

His hand shot up again, ready to strike her. Without thinking, I stepped forward, pulling Andrea back just as his arm swung down. "Dad, please! Stop!" My voice was shaking, but I forced myself to sound firm, my heart racing in my chest.

His eyes snapped to me, anger flaring, and I scrambled for a way to diffuse the situation. "It’s not her fault—it’s mine," I said, desperation lacing my words. "I picked the dress for her. I didn’t want her stealing my future husband. She’s always been the prettier one, and... I guess I was just jealous."

It was a ridiculous lie, but it was the only thing I could think of to shift the blame. His gaze narrowed, studying me for a few agonizing moments. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for his reaction.

Finally, he huffed, lowering his hand. "There’s no need for you to be jealous," he said, his voice taking on a different, unsettling tone. His eyes roamed over my body, lingering too long, making me feel exposed and vulnerable. "You’ve got a great shape as well," he continued, letting his gaze trail from my shoulders down to my feet. "And with your behavior, you have the upper hand."

My cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and disgust, but I forced myself to stay still, to keep quiet. Dad stared at Andrea one last time, his warning clear. "Don’t ever embarrass me like that again," he said, his voice low and threatening. Then, with a final glare, he stormed out of the room, leaving the door swinging behind him.

As soon as he was gone, I rushed to Andrea. She stood in the center of the room, her body trembling slightly as she tried to keep her composure. I helped her peel off the flimsy dress she had worn earlier—the one Dad had hated so much. Underneath, she was left in her bra and shorts, her skin already showing the damage. A large bruise was forming on her ribs, dark purplish-blue, swelling as I watched.

I grabbed some ice from the mini fridge and pressed it gently against her side. She winced, her breath catching, but she remained silent. Her abs flexed under my hand, muscles trying to protect themselves from the pain.

"Are you okay?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I’ll live," she replied quietly. "Thanks for stepping in. If you hadn’t, he would’ve kept going. I’d probably have more than just bruises by now."

"Why don’t you fight him?" I asked, my voice tight with frustration. "You’re strong enough. You don’t have to keep letting him hurt you."

Andrea shook her head, her expression grim. "I could take him one-on-one, sure. But it’s not just him. He’s got hundreds of loyal bodyguards. If I fought back, it wouldn’t just end with him. I’d end up dead, and I can’t risk that. Not with you here."

I nodded, understanding but hating it all the same. I rummaged through her closet and pulled out a comfortable t-shirt and loose shorts, helping her change. "This will all be over soon," I said, trying to sound hopeful. "Once we’re married off, we’ll be free of him. We’ll get rid of Dad."

Andrea pulled the shirt over her head, her voice flat as she responded. "If we’re not walking into an even worse monster’s den."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the fear felt suffocating.