I hope he means it because I’m all out of smiles and small talk.
Forty-five minutes later, and I’ve lost the will to live. Turns out I have a very low tolerance for socializing when I can’t drink, and sadly for me, alcohol is off the table tonight. Even I’m not stupid enough to mix booze and painkillers.
Angelo is talking to a pair of suits about business shit, so I zone out.
A hand brushes my hip, making me jump. I nearly end up tossing my sparkling water all over a woman standing nearby looking almost as catatonic as me.
“Having fun?” Kane stands close enough to whisper in my ear but not close enough to trigger gossip.
“No.” His low laugh sends tingles down my spine. I haven’t forgotten the way he made me come the other night.
“I’d much rather be at home, drinking wine and watching Netflix.”
“Not long now, kitten.” His fingers brush mine before he steps back and gestures across the room. “Luka’s here.”
“He is?” Angelo never mentioned Luka would be at this event. I already knew Fina wasn’t coming, something about a schedule clash, but it never occurred to me Luka might be here. It doesn’t seem like something he’d attend. Most of the guests are older corporate types with their vacuous wives.
I peer around Kane and scan the crowd, which has thinned out a bit since we’ve been stuck in this corner.
It takes me a hot minute, and then I spot him. He's penned in by a group of women, most of them older. In their late-thirties and forties at a guess. Cougars and desperadoes, every last one of them.
My hackles rise and I take a step forward. Angelo hasn’t noticed my mood change, but Kane grabs my wrist and hisses in my ear.
“Don’t make a scene!”
49
Chiara
Luka’s on edge. He’s chatting, flirting, like he always does. A cheeky smile here, and some muscle flexing there. But it’s all surface level. He’s playing a role. One he hates.
I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to see how much he despises being on display, like a pretty but vacuous Ken doll. I suppose it’s part of being a model slash influencer. Still, he’s a real person with actual feelings, and the way these bitches are pawing at him makes me sick.
It’s pretty fucking obvious they see him as a hot piece of ass, nothing more.
I spot a woman in a power suit who I assume is Luka’s manager, Nolene. She stands back watching him while tapping away on a phone. Is she really on board with this? I have to assume so. Luka is her asset. Avaluableasset. One that earns her a shit ton of money in commission.
There's a brand partnership he told me about; one with the high-end watches. I asked Fina about it. She told me he’s being paid a seven-figure sum over a two-year period.
The Di Rossis are worth billions, so a million or two is pocket change for him, but for Nolene? A deal like that is serious money for her. She won’t want the fans inconvenienced, which means she’s happy to stand by and let them sexually assault him.
I understand how parasocial relationships work. It’s all part of being in the public eye. But Nolene can get fucked if she thinks I’m biting my tongue while my man’s being groped by thirsty bitches who should know better.
And yeah, he is my man, even if he’s been off the radar for the last week. I’m still hurt about it, but having seen what’s happening here tonight, I suspect he’s stayed away because he’s ashamed.
Luka’s a people pleaser at heart. He lacks self-esteem for some stupid reason, even though he’s gorgeous and intelligent and the sort of guy every woman needs in her life. With me, he often lets me take the lead, so I bet with a strong older woman calling the shots, he naturally submits, even if it’s not what he wants.
As I watch him with these bitches, my fury simmering away like a volcano about to blow, an older woman touches his abs. He flinches. Not obviously, but it’s obvious to me.
Kane is still behind me, but when I check if he's paying attention, he’s talking to Angelo. My mind made up, I stride forward before either of them can stop me.
Luka sees me coming. From the way he avoids my eyes, he’s mortified. But he needn’t be. I don’t blame him for this. He might be tall, hot, and catnip to all females over the age of eighteen, but he’s not a fucking slab of prime rib. These bitches might not have read the memo yet, but there’s a thing called consent, and I’m pretty sure Luka hasn’t agreed to being pawed and groped in a public space.
“Isn’t he divine?” One bitch slides her fingers inside Luka’s waistband. He freezes like a deer caught in a hunter’s scope. From the glazed look in his eyes, he’s close to shutting down.
I recognize that expression. Trauma has many triggers. For me, it’s a whiff of stale sweat that sends me back to a cramped truck cab where a rough hand forced my thighs apart.
The bitch trying to touch my man’s dick goes down hard when I punch her in the tit. The other women jump away immediately.
