The world narrowed to a single point.
I was aware, distantly, that my body was doing things without my permission. My heartbeat accelerating. My breath catching in my chest. My vision tunneling until all I could see was that card in my hand.
E.
Enzo.
He was here. In my space. In my life.
The death of my freedom. What a bastard.
I've missed you.
The lie of it made me want to laugh. Enzo didn't miss people. Enzo collected people—gathered them like precious objects to display and discard as the mood struck him. He'd told me Iwas special because special was what I'd needed to hear. He'd made me feel chosen because feeling chosen made me easier to control.
He hadn't missed me. He'd missed the power he had over me. He'd missed watching me twist myself into knots trying to please him, trying to be worthy, trying to earn the warmth that he doled out like a miser counting coins.
Something shifted inside me.
It wasn't courage—I wasn't brave enough to call it that. It was colder than courage. Harder. A fury that burned through the fear like acid through metal, leaving nothing but clean, sharp edges.
He wanted me afraid.
He wanted me remembering.
He wanted me to lie awake tonight, thinking about him, wondering what he wanted, waiting for the next message, the next reminder, the next proof that I would never truly be free.
I tore the card in half.
The sound was satisfying—a clean rip through heavy paper—so I did it again. And again. Smaller and smaller pieces until the elegant handwriting was nothing but confetti in my palms. I walked to the bathroom, dropped the pieces into the toilet, and flushed.
The water swirled them away. Gone. Like they'd never existed.
Good.
The flowers were harder. The vase was heavy, the lilies stubborn, their stems thick and their petals soft. I carried the whole arrangement to the bathroom trash can—the largest one in the suite—and shoved it in. The vase hit the bottom with a thunk. The lilies crushed against the sides, their funeral sweetness releasing in a final rush as stems snapped and petals bruised.
I pushed them down harder. Broke more stems. Watched the pristine white flowers crumple into something ugly and ruined.
By the time I was done, my hands were steady.
Small victory. But it was mine.
I washed my hands—twice, three times, until the pollen stains were gone and the smell of lilies had faded from my skin. Then I walked through the suite, checking locks, drawing curtains, making sure every entry point was secured.
He would not get to me. Not tonight. Not ever again.
But later—much later—when I was lying in the too-large hotel bed with the city lights bleeding through the curtains and the silence pressing against my ears like something alive, I couldn't stop my mind from circling.
Enzo's hungry gaze across the reception hall.
Dante's shuttered face when I offered condolences.
The wedding that waited for me in three days like an open grave.
Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and full of shadows.
Myfather'stextarrivedat seven-fifteen, the message as economical as the man himself: "Breakfast. 8am. We need to discuss the timeline."
