Like he’s ten moves ahead in a game the rest of us are still learning the rules to.
When dessert plates are cleared, and coffee poured, he finally pushes his chair back, napkin dropped neatly on the table. “Walk with me,” he says, his gaze locking on mine.
It isn’t a request.
My spine freezes. “I’m fine here.”
His brow arches. “I wasn’t asking if you were fine. I’m telling you to walk.”
My mother opens her mouth, then closes it again.
I stand.
Because I don’t have a choice. Because the whole house knows it.
I follow him out of the dining room, the murmur of my parents’ voices fading behind us. He leads the way down the corridor, past portraits of dead Danforths. Ornate frames won’t hide the fact that we are new money and pretending to be the opposite, but at this point, I’d pretend to be anything not to have to go ahead with this sham of a wedding.
It’s pointless, though. Lorenzo will never let me go.
We reach the end of the hall, the moonlight spilling through the tall glass doors that lead out to the terrace.
“Why are we here? To discuss my cage?”
He steps closer. “You think this is about a cage?” he asks softly.
I meet his gaze, anger bubbling up inside me. “Isn’t it?”
His lips curl. “No, Little Bird. This is about a mirror.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means . . . ” He brushes a knuckle along the edge of my jaw in a touch that feels more like a threat. “You’re finally going to see what you turned me into.”
I swallow, refusing to let him see me flinch. “What kind of monster are you, Lorenzo?”
The smile that follows is slow, brutal, devastating. “The kind you made.”
He steps back, leaving the ghost of his touch and the echo of his words hanging between us.
The voices from the dining room drift faintly down the hall—my mother and father entertaining our future executioner with small talk.
And me?
I stand in my parents’ house, in a dress I didn’t choose, promised to a man I used to love and now barely recognize—
And realize I’m not waiting for a rescue.
I’m standing at the beginning of a war.
One I didn’t start. One I’m not sure I can win.
But one I’ll have to survive.
Because if Lorenzo Amante thinks he’s the only one who learned how to weaponize heartbreak—
He’s not paying close enough attention.
And that?
