A Taste of Freedom

Chapter 3: A Taste of Freedom

The first time Rose stepped into the law office, her hands were shaking.

She hated that.

After six years of surviving the cold hell of the Moretti estate, she should be stronger than this. But fear wasn’t logical. It was embedded in her bones—trained into her by every dismissive glance, every unspoken threat, every reminder that she belonged to him.

But this office wasn’t his.

It was hers.

Her lawyer, Marco Santini, was a childhood friend of her older cousin. A clean man. Brave, but careful. He knew exactly who Damian was—and what helping Rose meant.

Marco stood when she entered, offering a gentle smile that was all the more welcome in a world built on shadows.

"Rose Valenti," he said, shaking her hand with warmth. "Or... Rose Moretti, I suppose?"

"Not for much longer," she replied, voice low but steady.

He nodded, not pushing. "Come in. Let’s talk options."

The conversation felt like breathing for the first time.

Marco had done his homework. He knew the marriage contract was binding but not bulletproof. There were loopholes—Damian’s affairs, the emotional abandonment, her complete isolation. She had no photos, of course—no text messages, no witnesses—but she had years of silence. And that was enough to start.

“You understand what this means, right?” he asked quietly as he slid the first draft of the petition across the desk. “He won’t like this. Men like him don’t lose.”

She looked at the papers.

Divorce Petition: Rose Valenti Moretti vs. Damian Moretti

Her fingers hesitated. A breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t just a name—it was everything he’d stolen from her.

“I know what it means,” she said. “I also know I’d rather die than wake up ten years from now still wearing his ring.”

Marco nodded solemnly. "Then we file. Discreetly. I’ll send notice to his legal team in forty-eight hours. You’ll need protection after that."

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, standing, more sure of herself than she had been in years. “I’m already dead to him. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

The air outside tasted like fire and frost.

The city buzzed with life beyond the glass and marble tomb she called home. She took the long way back—letting the cold wind slap her cheeks, letting herself feel something. Anything.

Freedom.

Not full freedom—just a taste.

It burned beautifully.

Back at the estate, the wind had shifted.

The staff was quiet. Too quiet.

Rose entered the marble foyer and handed her coat to the maid. She was halfway up the staircase when she felt it—the chill that always came before he entered a room.

Damian was home.

“Where were you?”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

She turned slowly. He stood at the foot of the stairs in his black coat, tie loosened, hair slicked back, jaw clenched. He looked like sin incarnate.

“I had errands,” she said simply.

His gaze dropped to her handbag—where the edge of the legal envelope still peeked out.

His eyes darkened. “What did you do, Rose?”

She didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“I filed for divorce.”

Silence.

Damian’s face didn’t change. But the shift in the air was palpable. He stepped forward, slowly, as if stalking prey.

“No,” he said coldly. “You didn’t.”

She lifted her chin. “I did. You’ll be served by the end of the week.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “I’ve killed men for less.”

Rose’s heart thudded in her chest, but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore, Damian.”

A lie. But a beautiful one.

He stepped closer until they were face to face.

“You should be.”

She stared into the eyes of the man who had ruined her life. And for the first time, she didn’t feel small.

“No,” she whispered. “You should be afraid of what happens when you don’t own me anymore.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile—something colder.

“You think a piece of paper will undo what we are?”

“I don’t want to undo it. I want to end it.”

Damian's hand came up—not to strike her, but to grasp her chin. His grip was firm, possessive, his thumb brushing dangerously close to her lips.

“You really believe I’ll let you walk away?”

Her voice trembled—but her words didn’t. “I believe you won’t have a choice.”

A beat passed.

Then he laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“You’ve woken something, Rose. Let’s see if you’re brave enough to handle it.”

That night, he didn’t go to Elena.

He stayed in the house. Watched her from the shadows.

And for the first time in six years, Damian Moretti realized his wife was no longer breakable.

And that terrified him more than losing her ever .

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