He smiles then, slow and satisfied, and I hate that it looks good on him.“Do me a favor?”He angles his body so his mouth is near my ear, and his hand is still a warm brand at my back.“Your friends are watching.Turn around.Show them you’re okay.”
Some buried instinct tries to dig its heels in.Don’t.Don’t you dare.
Instead, my body does what he wants as he puts a hand on my seat and turns it slightly so that I’m facing the grinning women at the party table.
My smile snaps into place like a mask I’ve worn a thousand times.
Before I can stop myself, I lift my hand and curve my fingers into a ridiculous little heart.
They shriek and laugh like I knew they would.
One of them wolf whistles.Another cups her hands around her mouth and shouts something about me being “bad” and “going home with the hot one.”
Perfect cover.My stomach rolls.My cheeks feel hot.I can’t tell if it’s the drug or the fury.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.The words slide down my spine like ice.
He stands and offers a hand, one I’m compelled to accept.
When I’m upright, my ankles wobble, and he tightens his grip.“Now let your men know you’re leaving with me.”
My men?
I try to blink.
He knows I have security.Just who the hell are you?
“Do as you’re told, Valentina.”
I’m incapable of anything else.
I force my gaze past his shoulder, toward my men.Santo is moving now, frowning, starting toward us.Still, he’s too far.Everything is too far.
“Tell him you’re fine and that you’re going back to my room.Room 2317.”His voice has been sanded down to something smooth and coaxing.“Everything is fine.You’ll let him know when you’re ready to leave.”
Everything is fine.
Rage spikes again, bright and sharp…
Nothing is fine.
Then the emotion dulls, smothered under the heavy warmth spreading through my veins.My feet carry me toward Santo before I’ve finished deciding to move.
“I’m going with him.”To my horror, the words are clear, not slurred at all.I even add a little laugh, the sound bubbly and wrong in my own ears.
Santo frowns a little.
“Room 2317,” I repeat dutifully.“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go home.”
He scans me, eyes narrowing, cataloguing: no visible struggle, no tears, no fear on my face, no stumble he can justify stepping in over.Just his boss’s daughter, steady on her stilettos with a powerful man at her back and a rooftop full of witnesses.
“Signorina?”The question is a last check.A last chance.
“I’m good,” I reassure him.I lift my hand in a lazy little wave that feels like it belongs to someone else.“I’ll have my phone.”
He hesitates, just for a beat.Then training, protocol, optics—whatever it is—wins.He nods once and falls back, reclaiming his post by the railing.
Then the awful man who is doing this to me has my tiny purse over one shoulder and his fingers flexed against my back.To anyone watching, it probably looks like he’s being protective of his drunk date.
