After Byron leaves, I sink back onto the bed, my mind racing in a thousand directions. I reach for my phone, needing to hear a voice that doesn't calculate my every word and gesture. My fingers find Scarlett's number automatically.
She answers on the second ring. "Hey stranger, isn't it past your bedtime?"
"He wants to meet," I blurt out, my voice barely above a whisper. "Feretti. Dinner tomorrow night at Marea."
"Holy shit." The playfulness vanishes from her voice. "That was fast."
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. "I thought I'd have more time to prepare. To...I don't know, mentally get ready to face him. Byron just came in here talking about how I can't let my emotions rule me tomorrow. Like I'm some kind of robot he can program."
The line goes quiet for a moment before Scarlett speaks again. "Zo, I know you've been waiting for this chance for years, but?—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"Do you? Because I'm worried this is moving too fast. One minute you're watching him reject Byron's proposal, and now suddenly you're having dinner with him?"
I press my palm against my forehead. "It's what we wanted. What I've been preparing for."
"I know, but—" She pauses. "I love you, you know that, right? And I just want you to be safe."
"I will be," I assure her, though my voice lacks conviction.
"Everything's going to be fine if you move carefully," Scarlett says. "Remember, this man is dangerous. Don't let Byron push you into something before you're ready."
I feel a lump forming in my throat. "I'm supposed to wear a navy Chanel dress I have. Conservative but elegant."
"Of course he's picking your outfit," Scarlett mutters. "Listen to me, Zo. No matter what happens tomorrow, you're not alone in this, okay? I'm here. Even if I think this whole revenge plan is?—"
"The only justice I'll ever get," I finish for her.
"That's not what I was going to say." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Just... keep your eyes open. With Byron and with Feretti. They both want something from you."
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of tomorrow pressing down on me. "I need to go. Early morning."
"Call me after, no matter how late. Promise?"
"I promise."
My eyes burn as I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across it as headlights occasionally sweep by outside. The digital clock on my nightstand flips to 5:37 a.m. I've barely slept, my mind refusing to quiet down.
With a frustrated sigh, I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. Sleep isn't coming, so I might as well do something useful with this restless energy. I pull on leggings and a sports bra, tie my hair into a messy bun, and quietly make my way to the mansion's basement gym.
The cool air hits my skin as I flip on the lights. Byron spared no expense here—state-of-the-art equipment lines the walls, a testament to his belief that physical strength is as important as mental acuity. I head straight for the punching bag in the corner, not bothering with wraps. The pain might help clear my head.
I strike the bag once, twice, feeling the impact jar up my arms. Each hit sends a satisfying shock through my system.
Dinner with Damiano Feretti.Thwack.
The man who killed my father.Thwack.
The man I might have to marry.Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
My knuckles sting, but I keep going. The physical discomfort is nothing compared to the churning in my stomach when I think about what "marriage" to Damiano would actually mean.
I'd have to live with him. Share meals with him. Pretend to be his devoted wife while secretly working to destroy him.
And I'd have to share his bed.
My stomach twists at the thought. I stop punching, pressing my forehead against the cool leather of the bag. How can I possibly let that monster touch me? The same hands that pulled the trigger and killed my father would be on my skin.
