“Anywhere but here!” His voice bellows.
“This isn’t what I need from you.” My voice breaks on the last word, the exhaustion, anger, and grief all crashing together at once. “Get away from me.”
I grab my hoodie and shoes and run out, my bare feet pounding on the concrete as I take the stairs two at a time.
His face inches from mine. My wrists locked in his grip. The way his breathing changed—the way his eyes raked over me. He wasn’t justconcerned. No. It wasn’t just friendship. It wasn’t about the job for him.
God, Damiano was right.
Now I get why he was always trying so hard to keep me away from other men. The way he went above and beyond caring for me in Argentina, when his job was only to ensure my safety from the paparazzi.
Fuck, I’m so stupid!
I flee to the suite, lock the doors, and strip off my sweat-soaked clothes. I step into the shower, twist the knob past cold, and let the freezing water erase the memory of his body on top of me.
The guilt and anger start warring in my stomach, and tears blur my vision before I can stop them. I can’t believe that just happened.
What have I done? Did I string him along? Is this my fault?
He showed up, stayed when he had every reason to leave, and never once asked me for anything in return.
Now he’s unraveling.
Every bruise on his face is my fault. Every sleepless night, he spent standing outside my door. I put him through all of it without ever once looking close enough to see what it was doing to him. I never once considered that it might mean something entirely different for him.
I press my palms flat against the cold tile and let the water run over me until I stop shaking, my heart caught between heartbreak and anger.
Why, Julian?
Chapter 29
Katarina
I pace the length of the massive Persian rug until the friction burns my soles. Every few minutes, I stare at the window, searching the winding driveway for headlights—Damiano said he would be home before dinner, but he’s late.I pick up my phone for the fifth time, thumb lingering over his name. I know he won’t answer; wherever he is, his phone seems to have been forgotten.
I just want to hear his voice tell me it’s going to be okay.
I keep rubbing my wrists—where Julian’s grip had been. The skin looks fine, no marks, but I can still feel the pressure of his hands there, the way it tightened until it hurt. I press my fingers over the spot, trying to erase the memory, but nothing helps. I stop pacing and push open the balcony door. The cool, damp night air hits my face, carrying the faint smell of lemon trees from the gardens below.
My mind drifts as I look out at the darkness.
Julian used to find me in crowds within seconds. Awards shows, press events, late-night sets. I always knew he was there, waiting for me, and I leaned on him for comfort without ever asking what it cost him. My own grief was all I could see, and now I can’t tell if I’m guilty for relying on him or for pretending not to see it for what it was.
I slip out of the suite, navigating the corridors that smell like old wax and jasmine. I push open a side door, and the transition to the cold evening air makes me shiver.
The garden looks like a masterpiece at this hour. Romantic lights lit the path as I walked, until the house loomed as a silhouette behind me. When I hear the distant splash of the stone fountain, I start to relax, but when I turn a corner near a tiered basin, I come to a dead stop.
A tall man is standing in front of the fountain, his back to me, one hand resting on the stone rim. When he turns to look at me, the moonlight catches his silver-streaked hair and the deep lines between his eyebrows. He wears a thick, well-groomed mustache, and he carries himself with a casual, predatory grace, very much like Lorenzo’s.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stutter, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just—I needed some air.”
He turns to me, leaning on his gold-headed cane. He stares with a tilted head, eyeing me for a few seconds, and my skin pricks all over my body.
“You are no trouble, piccola,” he says. His voice is a rich, gravelly baritone, thick with the rolling vowels of the old country. “You must be the one my Damiano is so intent on keeping, eh?”
“I’m Katarina,” I say, reaching to twist the cuff on my wrists in an attempt to calm my nerves. “I apologize for the trouble. I don’t want to be a burden in your home.”
