Di Matteo’s. Ten tonight.
A pizzeria. No one sets up a business meeting at a pizza joint, not at that hour. Unless it’s for something…personal.
My stomach drops. Heat floods my chest, hot and bitter.
He’s going on a date.
A date. Is that why he’s been so moody, short-tempered, and impossible to read these past few days? He’s looking to get laid. Is he sneaking off to wine and dine someone else while I’m left here, pacing inside four stone walls like a prisoner?
My jaw clamps tight enough to ache.
He’s been shutting me out for days. Snapping at me. Ignoring me. Acting like I’m some pest he can’t wait to get rid of. And now it all makes sense. He’s been avoiding me because he knows he can no longer resist and needs someone else as an “outlet” to not cross the line.
What an asshole.
The thought is a punch to the gut I refuse to show.
He wants to keep me locked up here like some princess in a tower, but he gets to go out and have fun? No. Absolutely not.
“Oh, no you don’t, robot,” I mutter, clutching Duchess tighter to my chest. She squirms, her claws snagging my robe, but I don’t let go. “If you think you’re sneaking off to get laid while I’m stuck here, you’ve got another think coming.”
I’m going to Di Matteo’s.
Duchess mews, almost like she’s warning me. Or maybe agreeing. Either way, I grin.
“Guess we’re crashing his little date.”
The decision feels like gasoline poured over my skin: hot, reckless, impossible to take back once it sparks.
I dump Duchess onto the couch and sprint upstairs two at a time. My room looks like a storm passed through. Clothes everywhere, makeup scattered across the vanity, jewelry tangled like vines. None of it matters. My hands already know where to go.
The dress.
I tug it from the back of the closet, the one he banned in that clipped, commanding voice of his.Not in front of anyone else. Like I belong to him. Like he has a claim.
But the dress is trouble the moment I tug it up. It fits. Too well. Exactly how I remember it. I stare at myself in the mirror for a beat.
Perfect bait.
“Tell me I can’t wear this,” I whisper, swiping on lipstick, the shade just dark enough to bite. “See what happens.”
Duchess hops onto the vanity, tail curling against the perfume bottles, watching me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
By the time I’m done, my hair spills in soft waves down my back, my eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips gleaming under the low light. I look like trouble.
Iamtrouble.
“Come on, Duchess.” I scoop her up, ignoring her squeak of protest. “We’ve got a date to ruin.”
Downstairs, I move fast, every step an adrenaline spike. I avoid the guards, making sure they don’t spot me. The good thing about spending my entire life in a gilded cage is that I know exactly where the cracks are.
The garage is quiet, cavernous, lined with cars that cost more than some people’s homes. My pulse kicks when I spot the keyring glinting on the hook. Easy. Too easy.
I swipe one, tuck it into my purse, and stride toward the sleek black coupe. Leather sighs as I slide in. My hands tremble for a second before I jam the key into the ignition. The engine purrs to life, smooth and sinful.
Duchess curls on the passenger seat, tail wrapped primly around her paws, like she’s settling in for the chaos I’m about to cause.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, easing the car out of the garage. “We’re doing the world a favor. Someone needs to remind Nicolo Esposito he’s not untouchable.”
