I wobble back and forth on the floor.
This will pass,I tell myself. Just focus.
I breathe into my palms to stave off hyperventilation and think about my mother’s smile, which always makes me happy. After a few minutes, the panic attack finally subsides, and I stare at the mess I’ve made while tears slowly cascade down my cheeks. I feel terrible.
Suddenly, my lock turns and the door opens. I glance up at the maid’s face, who blankly stares ahead at the destruction I’ve caused.
“Oh dear,” she says. “What happened?”
“I … I …” I stutter.
“Good God.” She steps inside and closes the door behind her. “Let me clean all this up.”
She brushes some of the glass pieces together with a broom, but the judgmental look in her eyes makes me feel sodamn guilty about what I’ve just done that I can only mutter, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I crawl toward the glass and start picking it up by hand because I don’t want her to have to do all this extra work because of my anger toward Matteo.
“Oh no, ma’am, please don’t,” she says. “You don’t have to help me.”
“No, no,” I say, sniffing. “It’s fine. I made this mess. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”
She tries to stop me. “Ma’am, please don’t. You could get a—”
I hiss as I retract my hand. One of the large shards left a giant cut in my palm.
“Oh no, I’ll go grab the first-aid kit. Be right back.” She drops the broom and rushes out the door, leaving it unlocked and wide open.
My heart rate shoots up again as I stare at the open door.
It’s the only way out of this prison. I have to try.
I immediately crawl to my feet and bolt out the door without thinking. But the second I turn left into the hallway, I bump straight into Matteo.
Shit.
I look up into his gorgeous eyes and the gently tipped smile of his as he looks down at me from underneath his eyelashes, like he caught me red-handed.
“Sorry, I ...”
My words are interrupted when he grabs my wrist, and I’m almost ready to kick him in the balls when he brings myhand up to his face and looks at the wound on my arm. Suddenly, I don’t know how to function anymore.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
Before I can retract my hand, he drags me with him. “Come with me.”
Right then, Sarah hurries back to my room and shouts, “Wait, I have the first-aid box here.”
Matteo glances at her over his shoulder. “No need, I’ll take care of this myself.”
He hauls me to a bathroom down the hallway, which is gigantic and has an actual floor bath, as well as two waterfall showers right next to each other. Everything is made of marble, with light cascading from a window above, and it looks almost like a Roman bathhouse.
“Wow,” I mutter to myself.
This must be his bathroom.
He sits me down on a chair in a corner, then grabs some supplies from a cabinet near the sinks and wets a towel under the water.
When he kneels in front of me, my breath falters. He gently grabs my hand and pats the wet towel onto the wound, cleaning it. And I can’t help but stare at how meticulously he’s working his way across the palm of my hand, taking great care not to hurt me any further. Every time his coarse fingers touch the palm of my hand, electricity zings through my entire body, and I find it hard to breathe.
