I don’t recall telling you my sizes.
Raf:
I’m a good guess.
That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Are you trying to ruin my style cred?
Raf:
Wouldn’t dream of it.
I have very expensive taste.
Raf:
I have eyes. I’m aware of your penchant for designer brands.
Raf:
I’ve briefed Evie. She knows what she’s doing. Can you tell me a date and time that’s good for a fitting, please.
So polite with your hellos and pleases.
Raf:
Good to know you’re still a brat.
A smile spreads on my face at the memory of the last time I was on a dance floor like this and the threat he made to tame my bratty behavior. Before I have a chance to respond, a song we’ve loved on set comes on, and one of the hair and makeup artists grabs me to dance. I do so, clutching my phone in my hand, giddy from alcohol and the fact Raf—my Raf—has messaged me.
I’m letting the music take control of my body, swaying my hips and lifting my hands in the air. I quickly flick the camera up on the screen and take a selfie of me dancing with friends, lifting my Amaretto sour towards the lens in acheersmotion, making sure the angle shows off my cleavage in the cowl-neck halter top I’m wearing. No bra. In the background, there’s sweaty bodies, faces, eyes closed in ecstasy and the flash of lights. I don’t think twice before sending it to Raf, quickly adding:
Still a brat. Does the offer to have my ass spanked stand?
I bite my lip and giggle to myself as I move my body in time to the beat. The dopamine hit of having his attention even in the smallest way has jolted me back to life, reviving me. I feel strong hands rest on my hips and pull me close—I can tell it’s a guy, and as much as my mind, body, and soul want it to be Raf, he smells all wrong. Too citrusy. Notes too sharp and fresh. Not at all rich and intoxicating like the man making my phone vibrate in myhand with a string of new messages. My heart picks up speed. The lights feel too bright, the air too thick.
I am rifling through my memories, the ones attached to this familiar scent permeating my nose and making my stomach churn. The private hotel rooms I visited when I should have been studying. The late-night meetups at underground clubs just like this. Private dinners on his yacht—if it evenwashis, now that I know the con man he is. I could just turn my head and look for myself, but I don’t need to. His voice confirms the worst.
“Hello, baby doll,” he whispers into my ear.“I’ve missed you, bella mia.” The room spins and color drains from my face. I whirl around to see if I’m hallucinating or if that voice indeed belongs to the one man I thought I would never see again.
Acid burns my throat, and I don’t have time to respond or act because Marco inserts himself between me andhim, blocking most of my sight of him with his broad back. I peer around Marco’s body, my eyes connecting with his, a murderous expression marring his still too-perfect face before he slinks off into the crowd. Everything else about him is different, but I’ll never forget those piercing aquamarine eyes—ones that once invaded my dreams until they became the ones that haunted my nightmares.
Alessandro.
Chapter Twenty-One
I Think I’m Dying From A Mystery Disease
Raf
How many have you had?
Where is Marco?
I hope you’re not going for a repeat of the last time you were drinking. I’m not there to save you this time.
Chiara, answer me.
I’m clutching my phone,rereading the last four messages I sent her for what must be the millionth time while pacing my bedroom. Pacing? I never pace. I have perfected the mask of cool, calm, and collected. Yet contrary to this, I’m wearing a motherfucking running track into the rug in my bedroom because all I’ve been doing in the almost hour and a half since I sent those messages that I can see she has read and not responded to is fucking pace.
