“I did.”
She inhaled sharply, anger flashing in her eyes.
“You—” Her voice shook. “You followed me?”
I met her gaze and didn’t flinch.
“You were on a date, Valentina?”
The question hung between us—dense, dangerous, loaded with jealousy, fear, pain. And the insane certainty that there was almost nothing I wouldn’t do under their weight.
She stepped back, her hand trembling around her keys.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she hissed. “Did you really follow me, Enrico Ferrara?”
My jaw ached with the effort of restraint.
“You went on a date,” I repeated, stepping closer. “You dressed like that to have dinner with another man.”
“That’s none of your business!” she exploded. “You had no right to follow me!”
“He took you to an expensive restaurant where you barely spoke for ten minutes,” I shot back.
Her eyes widened in shock.
“You were spying on me?!”
I dropped my gaze for a second. Then looked back at her, letting the pain show.
“I was remembering what it feels like to lose you.”
She trembled.
“Then remember properly,” she spat. “Next time, think before leaving me at the altar.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
I deserved them.
“He hugged you,” I murmured.
“So what?” she snapped. “Of course he did—he’s my friend!”
“I was jealous,” I admitted quietly.
She blinked, startled. Then laughed bitterly.
“Jealous of a hug?”
“No.” I stepped closer. “Jealous of watching another man do lightly what I destroyed with rage.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. Her chest rose sharply.
“You can scream, hate me, curse me,” I said steadily. “But I will wait for you to love me again—even if it takes my entire life.”
She shoved me—weak, desperate, aching.
And even though everything inside me begged to pull her close and silence all that pain with my mouth, I stepped back.
