Later, long after the last toast and the staged photos, I slip out of the party and into the quiet dark of my suite. The marble floors echo under my shoes and my reflection glares back at me from a thousand polished surfaces—the perfect Mafia son, suit immaculate, tie loosened, and my eyes, dead.
I rip the tie off and toss it onto the bed, and sink into the leather chair by the window, the city of Turin spread out below me in golden lights. My phone feels heavy in my palm as the need to erase tonight burrows under my skin.
I shouldn’t. It’s risky as all hell every time I do this. Every time I watch her, every private stream I set up,it’s another cut I willingly let her make. Another wound that refuses to heal. But the longer I go without seeing her face, hearing her voice, the more I feel like I’m suffocating.
I open up Tempt before I can talk some sense into myself, and the little red circle around her picture lures me in.
My chest caves in on itself as the screen fills with her image—Lily, hair twisted up in a messy knot, she’s in lavender tonight, and the way the satin and lace hug every inch of her deserves to be studied. The glow of her ring light bathes her skin in soft gold.
“Hey, loves,” she purrs, voice husky, eyes dark. “Miss me?”
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. It’s like she’s talking straight to me and me alone. I know it’s a performance—for them, for her income, for the image she’s built to survive—but it doesn’t matter. My brain can’t untangle the woman I love from the siren on the screen.
She leans closer, lips parted, breath catching just slightly, like she’s remembering, too.
“Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about,” she coaxes.
My throat closes. Because if I told her the truth—that every dream is her, that I wake up reaching for her, that this engagement means nothing and everything at the same time—I’d fucking lose it. So I sit there in the dark, watching her undress piece by piece, every curve and sigh a brand burned into my memory. Want clawing at my chest. Guilt gnawing at my ribs.
Because no matter how many oceans or lies or secrets lie between us, Lily is still the only thing in this world I’ve ever truly wanted. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t already belong to her.
Chapter 20
The rest of the day flickers past in scattered moments—chalk lines on pattern paper, graphite smudges on my fingertips, and a half-empty coffee cup trembling in my grip. I keep telling myself the mysterious delivery doesn’t matter, but my brain is a dog with a bone.
If it wasn’t Matt, who sent it?
And if it was him, how does he know where I live?
Why play games with me now? Over a year later, months out from his wedding?
And why thefuckcan’t I be the kind of woman who blocks a man and moves on with her life?
Instead, I’m here, dabbing on highlighter until my cheekbones glow sharp enough to blind, slicking my lips in sheer gloss that gleams like liquid, while these questions tear through me. My pulse flutters under my skin, quick as hummingbird wings.
By the time Lyon’s skyline flushes pink, and the sun slips beneath the rooftops, I’m dressed in a lavender mesh bodysuit so thin it’s practically translucent. Satin traces every seam—cupping my breasts, sculpting my waist, hugging my hips. My nipples press against the mesh, piercings visible, hardened into tight furls that catch the ring light’s glow.
Slipping on my matching mask feels like letting everything else float away, embracing the art of letting go, if only for a few hours.
Showtime.
As I go live, the chat erupts, emojis and messages scrolling like wildfire. Hearts, flames, pleading words flood the screen. Every ping, every notification hammers in sync with my pulse. My chest tightens, my stomach flips, and somewhere between the thrill and the rush, I feel untouchable… and completely exposed.
JimsCuntDestroyer:Fuck yes, I’ve been waiting for you all day.
MistressE:That set is divine. Turn for us, sweetheart.
AdamsLadder:. Let’s see what that lace does when it stretches.
A smile curls over my lips, practiced and sultry. But there’s a genuine little thrill, at the way power settles in my chest, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Miss me?” I purr, letting my fingers drift from my throat down to my sternum, lingering over the valley between my breasts. I press my palms together, squeezing my tits until the mesh strains tighter, the lavender fabric going almost sheer between my fingers. “Because I’ve been thinking about you… all day.”
I slide my fingers down my stomach, tracing my navel, then lower, toying with the delicate strap perched on my hip. The deeper my hand travels, the faster the tips and pleas flood the chat.
I stretch my arms overhead, letting my breasts push against the mesh. The fabric strains across my nipples, which harden in the cool air and under the weight of the countless eyes on me right now.
