Her brow furrows in confusion or annoyance, I don't care which.
Right then and there, I vow to find whoever this Tommy asshole is and acquaint him with the worms. She might never want me, but she'll never ever have him. I'll rip him apart, joint by joint, and put him in the ground, even if she hates me for it forever.
11 - Emma
“Tommy.”
The name drops from Alessandro's lips like a blade while I'm rifling through his desk drawer, searching for a phone, a key, anything that might connect me to the outside world.
I freeze, my fingers still wrapped around a letter opener that now feels pathetically inadequate. He's been standing in the doorway watching me, fully dressed in a charcoal suit while I'm wearing nothing but his shirt from last night. The morning light slices through the curtains, painting harsh lines across his face.
"You talk in your sleep, Emma." My real name follows Tommy's like a punch to the gut. "Fascinating what people reveal when they think they're safe."
My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can hear it across the room. The gala confrontation still echoes in my bones: Blair Wollstonecraft's screams, Alessandro's bloodied knuckles, my shameful arousal at his protection.
I don't know how many days have passed since I told him everything. Time doesn't move in straight lines here, not in this tomb of glass and steel, not when I'm waiting for the axe to fall with every footstep in the hallway. Maybe three days. Maybe five.
I keep expecting him to walk in and say, "Marco knows," and then I'd be dead, or gone, or maybe finally free, but so far there's only been silence.
Alessandro doesn't look at me the same way he did before; the heat is gone, replaced by something that feels like a gloved hand around my throat. Every night I lie awake in his shirt—never my own clothes—and the cold air pulses from the vents like it's trying to suffocate me. It's almost funny, how the only thing warmer than the moon is the man I should fear most.
I try to comfort myself by remembering the way he shielded me at the gala, physically inserting his body between mine and Blair's. But every time I replay it in my mind, I get stuck on the way his hands lingered at my waist, the way he steadied me like I was something rare and breakable. I get stuck on the things I felt in that moment, the shameful, sick thrill as Alessandro's violence became my sanctuary.
Now, in the crisp light that exposes every bruise and flaw, I realize how little control I've had over anything since I walked into his world. Even now, with the letter opener in my hand, I know I'm not a threat to him. I never was.
He says my name again, softer this time—Emma—and I flinch, unable to hide the raw edge in my voice when I finally speak.
"Tommy who?" I ask, swallowing hard, my fingers still clutching the letter opener like it's my only lifeline.
Alessandro crosses the room with measured steps, each one deliberate. The sound of his expensive shoes against the hardwood floor feels like a countdown to my execution.
"Quit lying, servant," he says, stopping just out of my reach. His voice is dangerously soft. "Tell me who Tommy is, and why he's worth destroying both our lives."
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie again, but what's the point? Alessandro already knows I'm not Frances. He knows I'm living a borrowed life in borrowed skin. The only card I have left is Tommy, and I can see in Alessandro's eyes that he won't stop until he knows everything.
I abandon the letter opener, knowing it's useless. Against what? Against him? Against the truth? I don't know anymore. My legs feel weak, so I lean against the desk, trying to look casual when there's nothing casual about being cornered by a man who breaks fingers for sport.
"He’s my brother," I finally say, the words scraping my throat raw. "Tommy is my brother."
Something flickers across Alessandro's face—surprise, then calculation. He wasn't expecting this.
"Your brother," he repeats, testing the words. "Not a lover."
"God, no." The idea is so absurd I almost laugh despite the tension.
Alessandro stops, reassessing me with those cold eyes that miss nothing. "Your brother," he repeats, testing the words like he's tasting them for lies. "The leverage Mrs.Hewson held over you."
I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "He's in prison. She promised to get him out if I… if I became Frances."
"And if you refused?"
"She'd make sure he never saw daylight again." The memory of her cold smile makes me shiver. "She has judges in her pocket. Police chiefs. Prison wardens. Guards who would hurt him, kill him if I didn't agree to marry you."
I watch his face, searching for judgment. Instead, something shifts in his expression, curiosity transforming into something more complex.
"You've been having nightmares about him every night," he observes. "Screaming that you'll be good, that you'll work harder. What did they threaten to do to him?"
"Everything." My voice breaks. "The guards there are brutal. Mrs.Hewson had connections, could make his life hell or provide protection with a single call. She made it clear: play Frances perfectly or watch my brother die in a prison riot."
