I kick the covers off, padding barefoot to the window. The city is awash in moonlight, glittering and distant. I press my forehead to the glass and let myself shiver, hating how much I want to feel his arms around me, just for a moment. I imagine what I would say to him if he were here.
“Why can’t I forget you?” I whisper to the empty night. “Why can’t I hate you the way I’m supposed to?”
If he answered, I know what he’d say. He’d tell me I’m his, that this fire between us is inevitable, that fighting it only makes it burn hotter. I shake my head, but his voice lingers, wrapping around me like a chain.
When I finally crawl back into bed, I can’t stop my hand from drifting lower, tracing the places he touched, the marks he left.
I hate myself for it—hate the soft whimper that escapes my lips, the heat that blooms between my thighs, the way my hips arch into my own touch. I imagine his mouth, his hands, his body pressing mine into the mattress until I break for him all over again. Even as I reach for release, it’s his name that comes unbidden to my lips in a prayer, a curse, a confession.
When it’s over, I curl in on myself, empty and raw. Shame and longing twine together, too tangled to ever pull apart. I stareat the ceiling, heart pounding, breath slowing, and realize I’m crying again. It’s not fair, the way he haunts me, the way I crave him and fear him in equal measure.
Tomorrow, I’ll be colder. I’ll avoid his gaze, flinch from his touch, fight him with everything I have left. But tonight, alone in the dark, I can’t escape the truth: I want him, and I hate myself for it. The pull between us has become a curse—one I can’t break, no matter how hard I try.
I wipe my tears away, whispering his name into the empty room, loathing every syllable. I wonder if he’s awake, if he’s thinking of me, if he feels even a fraction of this torment. I hope he does. I hope he suffers for it.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Emil
The morning brings no peace, just the relentless shuffle of routine, doors opening and closing, the tap of keys, the muted hum of distant voices in the hallway.
I bury myself in the paperwork spread across my desk, focusing on shipments and contracts, trying to ignore the dull ache gnawing at the edges of my mind. I don’t check my phone for messages from the house. I don’t ask if she’s eaten, if she’s awake, if she’s stormed the halls or thrown something at a guard. I tell myself her absence is a relief. It should be.
It isn’t.
Dimitri enters without knocking, as always. He’s dressed for business: crisp shirt, neat tie, no nonsense. He drops a stack of folders on the desk, the top one marked with the Bruno crest.
“Morning,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “You look like hell.”
I grunt, not looking up. “I’m working.”
He smirks, settling into the chair opposite. “So you are.” He taps the top folder. “You’ll want to see this. The Brunos have been… surprisingly quiet. No threats, no midnight calls, not even a whisper on the wire.”
That gets my attention. I lean back, arms folded, fixing him with a look. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs, a half smile on his lips. “Maybe they’ve accepted their circumstances. Maybe Vittorio’s had enough humiliation for one lifetime.”
His tone is casual, mocking. Underneath, I hear the same edge of unease that’s been crawling through my veins sincethe wedding. The Brunos never go silent. Not unless they’re planning something—or unless they’re broken.
I close the folder, setting it aside. “If humiliation keeps him quiet, that suits me fine. One less threat to worry about.”
Dimitri watches me, eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe that.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The silence from the Brunos feels wrong. Too calm, too easy. War is a language I understand, but this quiet is a riddle with a knife behind its back.
Still, I let it go for now. If Vittorio has decided to lick his wounds, I’ll let him. There are other battles to fight.
The day crawls by. Meetings, numbers, the endless grind of business. But every hour, I find myself distracted—staring at the wall, thinking of her. Wondering if she’s eating, if she’s speaking, if she’s found some new way to test my patience. I tell myself it’s annoyance, nothing more. She’s been a storm in my life from the start. But the absence of her fury is a new kind of torment, sharper and more insidious than any argument.
I return home after dark. The house feels different: quieter, heavier, the tension thick as fog. The guards greet me with stiff nods, eyes sliding away. Something’s off. I head upstairs, passing rooms where lamps burn and staff bustle quietly, faces drawn tight.
Isabella’s in the sitting room, perched on the edge of the sofa. The window is open, letting in a breeze that ruffles her hair. She’s dressed simply, nothing of the sharp glamour she usually wears. Her gaze is fixed on some distant point outside, face expressionless, hands folded in her lap. I watch her for a moment, waiting for the flash of anger, the snarl, the stubborn tilt of her chin.
There’s nothing.
She turns when she hears me, but her eyes are dull, flat. The fire I relied on to keep her close—her defiance, her rage—is gone. She moves like she’s underwater, each gesture slow, muted. Her mouth is set, her shoulders hunched. It unsettles me more than I can admit. I thought I wanted her broken, docile. I thought I wanted her to surrender.
This isn’t surrender. This is emptiness.
I walk in, footsteps loud in the hush. “You’re quiet today.”
