"Your body says something else entirely," Damiano murmurs, his lips so close to my ear I can feel them brush against me. "Your pulse is racing. Your skin is flushed. You're responding to my touch."
"I am not," I hiss, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears. I hate him. I hate him for killing my father. I hate him for controlling me. And most of all, I hate him for making me feel this way.
"No?" Damiano's hand suddenly dips lower, past the torn fabric of my dress, brushing between my legs with deliberate pressure. A gasp escapes me before I can stop it. "Liar," he growls, his eyes locked on mine.
I jerk away from his touch, anger and shame burning through me in equal measure.
"No! Don't you dare touch me like that," I snap, putting distance between us. My legs feel shaky and I'm furious with myself for reacting to him at all. "I don't care who works for who or what game you're playing—I'm not a toy for you to handle whenever you feel like it."
Damiano's eyes darken, but he drops his hand. A cold smile spreads across his face, somehow more unsettling than his rage.
"Such conviction," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Such... resistance." He steps back, running his gaze deliberately down my body. "But we both know the truth now, don't we?"
I clutch the torn pieces of my dress together, hating how exposed I feel. "The only truth I know is that you're a controlling, arrogant bastard who thinks everyone belongs to you."
Damiano laughs, the sound rich and dark. He leansin, not touching me but close enough that I can feel his breath on my face.
"Mark my words, Zoe. There will come a day—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—and very soon, when you'll be begging me to touch you."
My skin prickles with goosebumps as he continues, "You'll be writhing beneath me, saying my name like a prayer, desperate for the very thing you're rejecting now."
"Never," I spit out, but my voice trembles.
Damiano straightens, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He's already stepping back, moving toward the door with casual confidence, as if he's won something.
"We'll see,lupacchiotta. Sweet dreams."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, so much quieter than his dramatic entrance. I'm left alone in the silence, breathing hard, the torn dress hanging from my body like a battle flag.
I sink down onto my bed, mind racing. My hand presses against my thundering heart, willing it to slow down, to stop betraying me.
This is all wrong. I'm supposed to be destroying him, not responding to him. Not feeling anything but hatred for my father's killer.
I pace my room for several minutes after Damiano leaves, struggling to calm my racing thoughts. The torn dress hangs limply from my body. With shaking hands, I finally peel it off and toss it in the trash. It's ruined anyway.
After changing into pajamas, I grab my phone and dial Scarlett's number, not caring about the late hour. She answers on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep.
"Zoe? What's wrong?"
"He tore my dress off," I blurt out, my voice tight with anger. "He actually grabbed it and ripped it right down the middle."
There's a beat of silence, then Scarlett's voice comes through, suddenly wide awake. "Wait, what? Damiano tore your dress? Like, forcibly removed it?"
"Yes! We got back from the club, and he followed me to my room and just... destroyed it. Said I wouldn't be wearing it again."
"Wow." Scarlett lets out a low whistle. "So... was it like a sexy bodice-ripper moment, or more of a psycho killer vibe? Because context matters here."
Despite everything, a reluctant laugh escapes me. "Scarlett, this isn't funny."
"I'm not saying it is, but come on. The guy literally ripped your clothes off. That's either the start of a horror movie or a romance novel." Her tone lightens further. "Was it at least an ugly dress?"
"It was the red one you helped me pick out last month on FaceTime," I say, collapsing onto my bed.
"The Valentino?" Scarlett gasps dramatically. "Okay, now I'm pissed. That was couture, you monster-in-law!" She pauses. "Did he at least look hot while committing fashion homicide?"
I roll my eyes, but feel some of the tension leaving my body. This is so typically Scarlett – finding humor in the darkest situations. She's been doing this since forever, turning my stress into something we could laugh about.
"You know," she continues, "most women have to pay good money for that kind of bodice-ripping experience."
