Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“There’s no denying I had feelings for you.” I tighten my grip on the bags cutting into my hands. “How could I not? You built a flawless illusion. The calm, collected god of the boardroom who always knew what to say and how to win. I admired everything about you. The way you commanded a room without raising your voice. How you made the impossible seem effortless.”
I pause, a bitter laugh escaping before I can stop it. “But I guess what I should’ve admired most was your acting ability. Because it takes a special kind of heartlessness to befriend someone while bartering their life like a possession behind the scenes.”
He says nothing, just moves to the bedside table, grabs his laptop, and walks to the lounger like I haven’t spoken.
At least he’s not slithering into the bed.
“How could you do it, Raffael?” I close the door behind us, not wanting the staff to overhear. “How could you have pretended to care while plotting against me?”
Still nothing.
He dumps the laptop on the lounger and returns to the bedside table. Silent. Tense. Those shoulders locked like he’s either absorbing every word or barely holding himself back from throwing me overboard.
I walk forward and dump the bags on the mattress. “I don’t know you at all, do I?”
Finally, he turns cold eyes to mine. “Not in the slightest.”
The truth hits harder than it should.
I blink through it. “I guess the same could be said for your father. What a piece of work he must’ve been behind all those kind smiles and polished compliments.”
“I suggest you leave Giancarlo out of this,” he warns.
“Oh, of course. God rest his soul—” I cross myself mockingly. “—unless it’s the devil who’s keeping him.”
His glare darkens, and for one beautiful second I think I’ve cracked his mask.
“What?” I give a pitying look. “Did you think I’d roll over under the terms of this agreement? That I’d be sweet and obedient while you undermined my future?”
He strides back to the lounger, his continued dismissal emboldening my hatred.
“Tell me,” I insist. “What went through your head when you negotiated my life like a fucking asset?”
He sits, crossing his feet at the ankles, and opens his laptop like I’m background noise.
I itch to slap a reaction out of him. To claw it from his handsome face.
“Come on, Raffael. You love a humble brag. Don’t rob me of the chance to hear how it felt to kiss a woman you’d already claimed as property.”
“I can’t remember,” he says flatly. Then his gaze flicks to mine. “Want to come over here and refresh my memory?”
My stomach flutters—low and traitorous—making me realize that while my mind recognizes him as the enemy, my body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo.
Shame comes fast, clawing its way up my throat.
And Raffael? He just returns his attention to his laptop, leaving me to choke on the silence.
It’s a game to him.
Is, was, and no doubt, forever will be.
I dig into my bag, desperate for a distraction, and focus on finding my pajamas.
My fingers close around silken material. Deep red. Thin straps.
I pull out the tiny slip, my nose scrunching.
