The way she looked right into the camera—right at me—and said,“Maybe next time.”
I stagger into the bathroom, turning the tap until water scalds my skin. Blood swirls pink and red down the drain, curling like smoke. My reflection stares back at me, wild-eyed and feral, cheeks flushed, jaw clamped so tight I’m sure I’ll crack a tooth.
I hate her.
I love her.
I want to ruin her.
I want to ruin myselfforher.
I want to drag her into my arms and fuck every ounce of defiance and resentment out of her until we’re both trembling, sobbing, clawing at each other like animals.
Instead, I bind my bleeding hand with gauze, pour two fingers of vodka, take a hit of my weed pen,and stare out at the Italian countryside that stretches beneath the balcony, pretending I belong here, pretending I’m not rotting from the inside out.
“I… I don’t understand,”she’d whispered, voice barely holding together. “What emails? Photos? Photos of… who? My birth certificate—it’s blank. There’s nothing…”
Her voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade, echoing from the night she was cast out, her eyes shining, tears threatening but refusing to fall. She always was too strong to let anyone see her fall apart or ask for help when she needed it.
The more I think back on that night, the more I watch her, and the more I look into Jen and Benedict’s fucked up connections, the less sense things make. But even if I could prove her innocence, where do we go from here? How the hell do we even begin to fix the bridges that have been burnt and heal the wounds sharp tongues have left behind?
All I have left is the ghost of her, flickering between pixels and login screens. Her laugh, her breathless moans, her stubborn tilt of the chin, all reduced to data I have to buy access to, like any other stranger. And tonight I don’t even get that.
We were supposed to be more than this.
We were supposed to be endgame.
Instead, she’s performing for faceless men, like what we had never mattered, like I was just another spectator instead of the man who once worshipped her body with my mouth, my hands, my goddamn soul, like it was my soul purpose.
And I’m trapped by this fucking contract, iron shackles dressed up as tradition, binding me to a life—and a wife—I never wanted. The image burns behind my eyes—Gianna in white, hanging off Nico’s arm while Antonio watches from the front row like a king admiring his prize. The thought of both our freedoms vanishing just likethatsplinters something inside me, my last shreds of hope.
My fist hits the wall again before I even register moving. Blood blooms bright and hot, streaking down pale plaster. The smell of copper fills my nose, and pain ricochets up my arm, buzzing behind my eyes until my vision blurs.
I drag my forehead to the wall, inhaling through clenched teeth. If I focus hard enough, I swear I can still taste her in the back of my mouth. My pulse is a snare drum, rattling, and relentless. This is the part I’ll never let her see. The part where it all capsizes inside me and I’m left bleeding on the inside with no one but myself to blame. This internal back and forth that threatens to consume me.
A soft knock rattles the door, dragging me back to my shitty reality. Given the soft nature of the knock, I already know who’s on the other side, and I debate ignoring her, but she keeps knocking until I drag my ass over and swing it open.
Gianna stands there, still in her dress from earlier, eyeliner smudged, eyes puffy and red, the ring Antonio had me place on her finger moments before tonight's party noticeably gone. She looks like a porcelain doll someone’s dropped and cracked open.
“What?” I snap, voice edged like a blade. Her flinch has me cursing myself, trying to dredge up some morsel of patience as Cora’s warning filters through my mind.
“Can I come in?”
I hesitate, every nerve in me screaming to tell her no. But one more look at her puffy eyes and years of being raised in the Points has me stepping aside. Jonathan would have my head on a spike if I turned her away when she’s so clearly upset, assuming Donna or Helen didn’t beat him to it.
She offers me a tentative smile as she slips into the room like a ghost, barefoot, moving as though she’s trying not to be seen as she takes a seat on the edge of the sofa, and once again, I’m reminded of the glaring differences between here and home.
Taking the chair opposite her, I let the silence blanket us, too tired to do anything else. For a long moment, there’s just silencebetween us, just the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like lead and her nervousness bleeding between us.
“I heard them talking. My father and grandfather,” she says eventually, voice trembling as she forces the words out, eyes fixed on the floor between us. “About us. About the wedding. They were in Grandfather’s office, talking about how it’s time to get me ready.”
Her throat bobs. “Father called me a prize.”
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion settling deep in my bones as my heart cracks for the girl sitting in front of me.She deserves better than this, better than the half-life waiting for her if she marries me.
“Christ,” I mutter. “You know that’s not true, right?”
“All I know is you’re going to be my husband, and you can’t even stand the sight of me.”
