“Maybe.” Dimitri’s shoulders shift in a faint shrug. “He won’t risk you. That much I know.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel safe?” My voice cracks. “Being precious because I’m leverage?”
Dimitri’s eyes soften a fraction. “You’re more than leverage. Even to him.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Emil’s never been good at losing control. You… unsettle him.”
I look away, tears stinging my eyes. “I wish I could believe that mattered.”
He lets that hang between us, then stands. “It does. Maybe more than it should.”
Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “If you need anything—if you want someone to talk to—I’m here. I’m not your enemy, Isabella. Neither is everyone in this house.”
I nod, but I don’t thank him. I don’t know how.
The room is silent again, save for the distant hum of the city and the echo of my own restless thoughts. I stare at my reflection in the glass: hair tangled, eyes bruised with exhaustion, mouth set in a line I barely recognize. I think about the girl I used to be, the one who dreamed of escape, of love, of a life without bargains and blood.
I think about the woman Emil sees now—the one he wants to tame, to claim, to worship and to destroy. I wonder which one is closer to the truth.
The longer I sit, the more the ache inside me grows: rage, longing, confusion, all knotted together. I hate him for what he’s done, but I hate myself more for not being able to wish it all away, for the pulse of desire that lingers long after he’s gone.
I rest my forehead against the cold glass, eyes squeezed shut, trying to quiet the storm inside me. There’s no peace to be found in this gilded cage, no comfort in the dark. There’s only this—I am changing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go back.
I whisper his name, hating myself for how soft it sounds. I promise myself, and Enzo’s ghost, that I’ll survive this. That I’ll find a way to make it mean something, even if I have to lose myself to do it.
I close my eyes and let the night swallow me whole, caught between hatred and hunger, not sure which will win.
Chapter Twenty-Two - Emil
The morning starts in a hush, the whole house holding its breath. I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, pretending to look over last-minute details for the event, but my mind isn’t on the agenda. I hear her heels first, sharp clicks against marble.
I glance up and the world narrows to a point.
She wears a red dress: deep, wicked, the color of sin and ripe cherries and old blood. It clings to her body, highlighting every curve and angle, catching the morning light and setting her skin on fire. She walks with her head high, lips painted a matching scarlet, hair swept back in soft waves.
It’s not for me, not today; it’s armor. Still, the sight hits me with a force I didn’t expect.
She doesn’t look at me as she reaches the foyer, just glides past with a quiet nod. The guards open the door, their eyes darting between us, and we step out into the waiting car. The drive is silent, tension crackling between us.
She keeps her gaze pinned to the window, hands folded in her lap, body angled away. Every now and then I find myself staring, unable to look anywhere else. The way her throat moves as she swallows. The stretch of her thigh beneath the dress. The stubborn set of her jaw.
I want to touch her, to ruin that icy composure, to remind her who she belongs to. She sits too still, too proud, and my anger lodges in my chest, sour and heavy. I clasp my hands tightly and watch the world outside the car window.
When we arrive at the event—a sprawling house on the edge of the city, full of old money and new threats—she slips into her role without missing a beat. The room is crowded with menwho shake my hand too hard and women who watch us with hungry eyes.
My hand never strays far from her waist. I keep her close, a silent warning to anyone who forgets what she means to me. She moves with practiced grace, smiling just enough, laughter tinkling and false.
She is flawless, untouchable, and it drives me insane.
She lets herself be led from one introduction to the next. She laughs at the right moments, listens patiently to tedious stories, poses for photos with a calm I envy. I watch her glide through the crowd, the red dress marking her like a target and a flag.
She’s surrounded, admired, the envy of every woman in the room and the secret fantasy of more than a few men. I see the way they look at her, the way their eyes slide from her face to her mouth, her collarbone, the long line of her legs.
One of the men—a slick little bastard, the son of an associate who’s been angling for favor—sidles up to her while I’m talking to another boss. I catch the movement from the corner of my eye, and the hairs on my neck rise. He’s young, eager, stupid. He’s saying something meant to be clever, his hand resting a little too long on her arm as he steers her toward the buffet.
I see her lips curve—just slightly—into a smile I haven’t earned in days.
He says something that makes her laugh, the sound soft and quick, and I feel it like a blade in my gut. That laugh, the one I’ve missed, the one she’s withheld from me since the wedding night.
The little bastard leans in, fingers brushing hers as he hands her a glass of champagne. Her cheeks flush, her eyes sparkling with a lightness I haven’t seen since she was free.
