CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHEMADEITback to her bedroom before the tears came in a hot, scalding rush as she closed the door behind her and crumpled into a heap right there on the floor. Stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You knew all along he wasn’t going to love you.
But to accuse her, and of something so absurd—as if she would have taken photos and posted them...! It was an excuse, it had to be, or maybe he really didn’t know her at all, much less love her...
Either way, did it really matter? He still wanted her gone.
Drawing a shuddering breath, Liane stood and walked on shaky legs to the wardrobe, resolutely pulling her suitcase out as an unruly sob escaped her. She’d call for a taxi, she’d leave right away. She couldn’t bear seeing him again, that haughty look of disdain on his face...
From the bedside table, her phone pinged. She didn’t even want to look at the photos Ella must have posted, although she supposed she ought at least to know what had been the catalyst for her heartbreak. Sniffing, she pushed her tangled hair out of her face and went to grab her phone.
It only took a few swipes to get to Ella’s profile and then a shuddery breath escaped her as she slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. Silently she began to swipe through the photos—about a dozen—together, all of them telling a story. Revealing the truth?
No, not the truth. The truth, Liane acknowledged hollowly, was Alessandro’s icy rage of just a few moments ago as he’d told her, just as he’d said he would, when their arrangement would end. And yet...she’d always known Ella was a master of manipulation, capturing the perfect image, zooming in on a face, spinning a story, just as she’d promised when Alessandro had first suggested she accompany him to all the Rossi hotels.
The Prince finds his Princess, indeed.
And what happened next?
He booted her out.
And yet here was the love story Ella had been wanting to tell—Alessandro gazing at Liane across the ballroom, his forehead wrinkled with concern, a faraway look in his eyes, with the caption underneath, Looking for his Princess... And there he was dancing with her, except the camera had zoomed in on Alessandro’s face, and the unmistakably tender look softening his eyes, his mouth.
Liane gulped. There was more, so much more. Alessandro and her chatting on the plane, but again the camera revealed something Liane hadn’t seen. The blatant look of affection in his eyes, the smile tugging at his mouth, the way his arm was draped across the top of her seat...
A gasp escaped her as she saw the next photo—of them kissing in the garden here at the villa, in what she’d believed to be a completely private moment. Who on earth could have taken that one? And another, walking hand in hand as the sun set behind them, through an olive grove. Liane was laughing as she looked up at him and Alessandro was smiling. There were several more, all taken at the villa, all showing a man who looked so wonderfully in love, showing the most vulnerable part of himself—to the world.
So this was what Ella had meant about giving a helping hand! But where on earth had she got the photos from? And then realisation thudded through her—Sophia. Of course. Ella must have contacted her through social media, enlisted her help. Sophia had been so cheerful, always popping up to spend time with them, always with her phone, as any teenager was...
A choked laugh escaped Liane that ended in a wavery sigh. Her sister had meant well, and so had Sophia, of that she was sure, but their so-called help had had the utterly opposite effect. Alessandro was more determined than ever not to believe the truth in these photos and to convict her instead of some sort of cold-hearted manipulation.
With another shuddery sigh she put the phone down. She had more sympathy for him now that she’d seen the photos, and she realised how hard they must have hit him. It must have been extremely galling—humiliating, even—for Alessandro to see those photos of himself looking so vulnerable, so open, his emotions seemingly laid bare, and especially when they’d been taken here, where he’d assumed it was private. He’d thought he was safe. For him to believe he was being used, just as he had been as a child...well, for him it was proof that the fairy tale wasn’t real, wasn’t it?
And it wasn’t. Because, as compelling as these photos were, they weren’t the truth. The truth was Alessandro coldly telling her to get out of his house, refusing even to listen to her. She’d done all she could, Liane knew. She’d told him she loved him. It might have been said in anger and hurt, but she’d meant it. All that was left now was to go.
And so she did, as quietly and unobtrusively as she did everything else—packing her single suitcase, calling a taxi, writing a note for Sophia and Christina thanking them for their hospitality, and then slipping out of the villa without anyone even noticing she had gone.
Half an hour later she was in Perugia; she took a connecting flight to Milan, spending the night in a cheap hotel, and then the next day flew back to New York, all in a state of numb, abject desolation.
By the time she arrived at the townhouse overlooking Central Park her eyes were gritty, her heart still aching. Twenty-four hours hadn’t helped her feel the tiniest bit better. If anything, she felt worse, the loss of Alessandro reverberating emptily through her. She hadn’t answered Ella’s calls, simply texting her that she was going home. Then she’d turned off her phone because she knew she didn’t want to deal with the media frenzy that had erupted with Ella’s posts. If anything, she thought wearily as she lugged her suitcase up the steps of her home, she just wanted to go back to the way she had been before, safe in the shadows. The online world would forget her in a heartbeat, she knew. And so would Alessandro...
The front door opened and she glanced up, expecting to see her mother’s stern face.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Liane’s jaw dropped and her fingers slipped from the handle of her suitcase. ‘Alessandro...’