She just got to him first.
Time to take her out of the game.
My pulse jumps as I position the tip of the knife along my forearm, choosing the exact place the cut should go. Not too deep or too long. It's just enough to bleed, hurt a little, and convince anyone who sees it that she attacked me.
Brax will look at me and ache.
He will become mine.
I exhale. Then don't flinch as I press. A sting erupts, and my breath yanks from my lungs. Red blooms across my skin, trailing down in a beautiful, messy line. I gasp as the pain grows and steals my words.
A tear slips down my cheek. It's genuine and makes me happy.
This is real. Real always makes it better.
I smear the blood slightly with my fingers, letting it streak and appear more chaotic, exactly the kind of mark a jealous wife would make.
And it proves I matter.
Gritting my teeth, I press a bit more, then throw the knife into the sink. I run the water over it, washing away the proof, then wrap my hand around my bleeding arm. I sneak through the penthouse, get into the foyer, and press the elevator button. It dings, and the doors open.
I scream, "Dad!" stumbling through the main doorway, then shout louder with pain in my voice, "Dad! Help!"
He steps into the room. "What's all the—" His face drains of color. His voice drops into the dangerous, lethal one he uses when he's angry. "Blue! What happened?"
Perfect.
I lean into him, choking up. "Valentina. She…she lost it. She came at me with a knife."
My father's entire body goes rigid. He steers me to the kitchen, yells in Russian for the house cleaner to grab the first aid kit, then runs water over my arm.
I let more tears fall, thrilled with how this is going so far.
Alina appears, shocked, with the kit.
Dad dismisses her, cleans up my arm, and gets the bleeding to stop. He slides glue meant for cuts over it. When it's sealed, the red blood is still visible.
Perfect!
He puts both hands on my cheeks. Rage burns in his blues. "What happened?"
"I was on the street. She...she just attacked me! I didn't do anything, Dad!" I cry out, then sob against him.
He holds me against his chest. "Shh. It's okay. You're safe."
I draw it out, but as he holds me against him, he grabs his phone and types something.
I pull away, sniffle, and ask, "What are you doing?"
"Handling this," he sneers.
Too perfect!
I work hard to contain my excitement, staying in victim mode. I add, "I don't know why she would do this to me."
"She's an Abruzzo," he snarls.
I push my face against his chest, unable to stop my smile. Everything is happening exactly how I pictured it.
