“Vincenzo left abruptly while we were both in the room after receiving a call. Do you know where he might have gone?” I kept my voice steady, forcing it even.
Ciro’s expression tightened slightly.
“Violet’s driver had a minor accident while taking her home after dinner. Scraped the guardrail—nothing serious.”
He paused, eyes flicking toward me. “Vincenzo went to make sure she was all right.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
He had forced me to my knees, and I had obeyed — trembling, humiliated, lips parted and ready to take him into my mouth.
But he had stopped.
Just like that.
He had pulled away abruptly, as if the entire moment meant nothing, and left me there on the floor like discarded trash.
Because he had gone to her.
Violet.
She was the one who truly mattered.
She always would.
I would never be more than a replacement — a temporary, unwanted wife.
He had already made that brutally clear.
Why did it hurt so much?
The pain came without warning.
It stole my breath, twisting viciously until my eyes burned with unshed tears.
I hated myself for feeling it.
I hated him even more for making me feel it.
My chest tightened.
I lowered my gaze to the floor, focusing on the glittering shards of glass scattered across the marble.
Refusing to let anyone see what it did to me.
Refusing to give them that.
I swallowed hard.
Forced my breathing steady.
I would not cry.
Not for him.
Not for this.
