“That Cristian signed a contract to marry Isa.”
“No,” I whisper. “Hell no. It can’t be true.”
“I’m sure it’s not.” John Angelo tips my chin up. “Rumors have a habit of becoming embellished as they get passed around. The boss hasn’t said anything to me, and I’ve heard nothing official. Perhaps it’s a complete lie. I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman started the rumors. She’s always had a thing for the boss, but I swear to you, Sloane, Cristian has never shown any interest in her.”
“She had a wedding invite. The date is set and everything.”
Sympathy splays across his face and I hate it. “You need to talk to Cristian. Don’t do anything rash until you know the truth.”
“Right.” I bark out a laugh, wondering if this is Cristian’s cruel way of exacting revenge. Maybe last night and this morning have been a lie, and this is his way of punishing me for the things I did. Dangle the fantasy in front of me again and then rip it away. “I’m such a fool.”
Rushing to the bedroom, I start plucking things off the bed, tossing them back into boxes. I’m fuming. Hurt. Angry. Feeling like a stupid, naïve, young college student all over again.
“Sloane.” John Angelo comes into the room, holding out his cell. “Cristian wants to talk to you.”
Snatching the phone from his hand, I press the speaker button and let him have it. “I assume John Angelo told you about my little meet and greet with your fiancée?” I spit out the word, and it fucking hurts. I’m so enraged, I want to hit something. Preferably her smug face. She got off lightly with a busted nose.
“She’s not my fiancée, and I’m not marrying her.”
“She had a fucking wedding invite with your names on it!” I yell.
A pregnant pause ensues before he speaks. “She had what?” His lethally cold tone sends chills up my spine.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” I hiss.
“Listen to me, Sloane. I don’t know what the fuck Isa is up to, but I am not marrying her. When I get married, it will be to you.You, Sloane. Not her.You. Now, I will handle Isa, and I’ll explain it properly when I get back, but do not run. Please.” Fear laces through his words. “You promised. Don’t do what I did because we’ve both paid a high price for that mistake. Give me a chance to explain. If you still want to leave, then I’ll help you leave safely, but I swear to you, Sloane, the only woman I love is you. I don’t want her. Not at any time and certainly not now. This is a ploy to drive you away. Nothing more.”
Air whooshes out of my mouth. “Okay. I’ll wait for you to explain it, but I’m angry, Cristian. So fucking angry. You should’ve told me.”
“I wish I had, and you have every right to be mad, but I promise I can explain it. Just don’t leave.”
After John Angelo leaves, I change into yoga pants and a crop top and tie my sneakers before heading to Cristian’s gym to work out some of my frustration.
Switching on the treadmill, I start running, gradually increasing the speed as my limbs loosen. As I stare out the window at Manhattan, I barely see the buildings, Central Park in the distance, or the crowds on the sidewalk below because I’m lost in my head.
There’s obviously some grain of truth to the story, but I’m choosing to put my trust in Cristian and waiting to hear what he has to say. Running away would not have been the answer. I can’t tell Cristian we need to openly communicate and then revert to knee-jerk reactions. I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it, but I’m glad for John Angelo’s quick thinking. I guess Cristian and I have a long road ahead of us. Past mistakes and everything that has happened will undoubtedly color both our judgments. I can only hope in time we navigate successfully through all the obstacles in our way.
Cranking the speed a notch higher, I pound the treadmill as I physically vent my frustration. Sweat rolls down my back and beads on my brow. The fucking nerve of that bitch to show up here like that. If I’d left, it would’ve played straight into her hands. I’m mad at myself for letting her get to me. I’m better than this. But I’m also pissed that Cristian facilitated a situation where I was blindsided.
I’m so lost in thought, I almost miss the reflection in the glass, only spotting the man creeping up on me from behind a split second before he reaches me.
Jumping off the treadmill, I duck under his arm before he can grab me, racing for the door and screaming for help. Yanking on my ponytail, he pulls me back with force, and I fall to the ground. His body covers mine before I can roll away, but I fight back, swinging my fists and getting a good jab in before he grabs both wrists and stretches them over my head. He’s clad head to toe in black, and his face is shielded by a balaclava, but I have never forgotten those dark, evil eyes or the derisory tone in his accented voice when he speaks.
“Good to see you again, slut. I’ve missed your pretty mouth.”
I try to buck him off, but he straddles my thighs, pinning me in place. “It’s Alvaro,” I shout, knowing Cristian has a camera somewhere in here. “He’s?—”
When his hand covers my mouth, I bite hard through his glove, digging my teeth into his flesh like a wild animal.
Alvaro roars before backhanding me, but I have one hand free now, and I reach between us, hating I have to do this, but it’s the smartest option. Grabbing his junk through his pants, I squeeze hard, digging my nails in for added displeasure.
Tears fall from his eyes as he clutches his groin and yells. Using both hands, I shove him hard in the chest, catching him off guard. He falls to the side, and I kick at his legs before climbing to my feet. Sprinting toward the door, I notice the open air vent panel lying on the floor for the first time. As I run, I scream his name repeatedly, stating he’s cartel, hoping someone is watching the live feed in the control room and they’re coming to my rescue.
I’m halfway through the door when his hand wraps around my ankle. I scream as I face-plant the floor, pain rattling across my brow as I crash into the hardwood floor. Black spots mar my vision as Alvaro sits on my back, restricting my breathing.
“Fucking whore,” he hisses as a sharp prick stabs the side of my neck.
“Cristian,” I slur as my vision blurs. “I love you.”
