“What the hell is this?” my husband shouted as he pulled the towel away from me on our wedding night.

The morning sun over the Tuscan hills rose in a breathtaking sea of pale gold, pink, and soft lavender.

Six months had passed since we left Boston behind.

I stood on the broad stone terrace of our villa in Greve in Chianti, looking out over rolling hills covered in neat rows of green grapevines stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was crisp and sweet, smelling of morning dew, wild lavender, and rich, turned earth.

I wore a simple, loose white linen dress that fluttered gently in the morning breeze.

I turned slightly, looking at my reflection in the arched glass doors of the terrace.

The woman standing in the light was no longer the pale, trembling girl who had clutched a wet towel in a hotel room in Boston. My skin was golden from months spent working in the garden; my hair was long, thick, and bright; my eyes held a quiet, unshakeable strength.

I reached up, pulling the neck of my linen dress down slightly, looking down at my body in the bright morning sunlight.

The scars were still there.

The long, thick line across my ribcage, the puckered mark on my abdomen, the pale white ring on my wrist—they were all still carved into my skin. They would never fade completely.

But they no longer looked like marks of violation.

Under the brilliant Tuscan sun, they looked like gold thread sewn into an old tapestry—proof of a battle fought, survived, and won. They were the scars of a survivor who had torn down two empires to reclaim her soul.

"Genevieve?"

Julian’s warm voice broke through the quiet morning.

He walked out onto the terrace, wearing a white shirt and trousers, carrying a tray with two cups of dark espresso and fresh Italian pastries. He set the tray on the iron table, coming up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his warm chest.

He rested his chin on my shoulder, looking out at the glowing horizon with me.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked gently, pressing a soft kiss against the side of my neck.

"I was thinking about the day we met," I whispered, resting my hands over his arms. "At that art gallery in Boston. You asked me why I was staring at a painting of a caged bird for twenty minutes."

Julian let out a soft, low chuckle against my ear. "And you told me the bird wasn't sad because it was in a cage. You said it was just waiting for the lock to rust."

"The lock didn't rust, Julian," I said, turning around in his arms to face him, looking into his deep brown eyes that held nothing but unconditional love for me. "You broke it."

"No, Genevieve," Julian said softly, reaching up to gently trace the line of my cheekbone with his thumb. "You broke it yourself. I just held the door open."

He leaned down, pressing his lips to mine in a long, tender kiss that tasted of sweet espresso and the fresh morning air.

Below us, the valley woke up in a chorus of birdsong and rustling leaves. The past—the cold operating rooms, the suffocating galas, the arrogance of the Sterlings and the Vances—had faded into distant, harmless dust.

I pulled Julian closer, burying my face in his chest, feeling the warm, strong beat of his heart under my fingers.

My name was Genevieve Vance.