My stomach lurches violently.
I drop to my knees in front of the toilet just as the bile comes up. It burns my throat, acidic and foul. I retch until there’s nothing left, until I’m just dry heaving over the pristine white porcelain, gasping for air.
I flush it. I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Get up," I whisper to the empty room. "Get up, you piece of shit."
I force myself to stand. I wash my face. The water is cold. It doesn't help.
I dress quickly. Jeans and a black t-shirt I brought in my bag. I can't look at the suit. The suit is part of the lie. I kick it into the corner of the room.
I walk out into the hallway.
The penthouse is silent. It’s a cavernous space—polished concrete floors, recessed lighting, modern art that looks like spilled ink frozen in time. The air is filtered, climate-controlled to a precise sixty-eight degrees. It’s quiet. Not the quiet of an empty house, but the quiet of a vacuum.
I walk toward the kitchen. I walk heavily, my boots sounding loud against the floor. I want to make noise. I want to disrupt this perfect, sterile silence.
Alessandro is there.
He is standing at the island, reading a tablet.
He is fully dressed. Black trousers, sharp crease. Polished shoes. And a black turtleneck sweater made of some material that probably costs more than my car.
He looks immaculate. Untouched. Like he spent the night sleeping in a cryo-chamber instead of being pinned against a window by a drunk man. His hair is combed back perfectly. His posture is rigid.
The turtleneck hides his neck. Hides the bite mark. Hides the bruises.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Coffee is on the counter," he says.
His voice is level. Conversational. The voice of a man offering a houseguest refreshments on a Sunday morning.
I stop in the doorway. The normalcy of it is jarring. It feels perverse. It feels like a trap.
"That's it?" I ask. My voice is gravel. "Coffee?"
He swipes a finger across the tablet, scrolling through a document. "There is milk in the refrigerator if you take it. I threw away the whiskey bottle you left on the table. It was empty."
The dismissal hits me like a physical blow. I cross the kitchen in three long strides, coming to stand on the opposite side of the island. I want a reaction. I want him to yell. I want him to throw the coffee in my face. Anything to prove that I didn't break him completely. Anything to prove he’s still in there.
"You're not going to say anything," I say.
"About what?"
The two words land between us, flat and heavy.About what.
"About last night."
He looks up.
His eyes are dark, clear, and utterly empty. There is no anger. No fear. No shame. Just a flat, clinical assessment. He looks at me the way a doctor looks at a patient with a mildly interesting rash.
"Last night was a consummation," he says. "It was anticipated. It has been accounted for."
"Accounted for." I repeat the words, trying to make sense of them.
"In my assessment of the arrangement." He lifts his mug and takes a sip. He sets it down with a precise click. "Did you expect me to be surprised? You were drunk. You were angry. You felt powerless. The psychological trajectory was predictable."
