My voice turns quiet. I’m afraid to ask this question aloud. What she did to us all back then was real, but I can’t keep running from another truth.
“What if I don’t want revenge anymore?”
For a moment Remo just stares at me like I’m speaking another language. Then an almost frightened expression flickers across his face.
“Don’t say that.”
I hold his gaze. I need to know what the fall-out would be. What would happen if I chose Pfeiffer.
“I’m serious.”
“No.” He steps back like the words themselves are dangerous. “No, fuck that.”
I start to panic. “Remo?—”
“We built our entire fucking lives around this.” His voice rises again. “Everything we did after school—everything—was about dragging you back out of that hole. And now she’s here and you’re… what? In love?”
Those two words detonate silently inside my skull.
I say nothing, which is answer enough. Realization slowly drains the color from his face.
“Oh my God.”
I’m reeling beneath the surface at the thought of loving Pfeiffer. I can’t love her, but I can’t say out loud that I don’t, either. Something’s stopping me.
Fifteen years of hurt floods my veins. Too much for one heart to fight.
For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do. But there are three people who’ve never uttered a harsh word against me and have always stood by my side, whether I asked them to or not. And one of them is standing in front of me now.
“I’m not finished with her,” I promise aloud. “Ruining her might not look like we thought it would, but by the time I’m done, she’ll know what she did.”
I flick my gaze back to his.
“You need to trust me.”
He jerks back slightly, unconvinced by my softer resolve. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he spins around and stalks back to the door. He pulls it open with measured force and turns to throw me a pointed glare.
“You tell her Fiero,” he warns. “Or I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Pfeiffer
For the firsttime in a month I walk into the club with no one holding a metaphorical gun to my head. For the first time, I feel like I can see the extraordinariness of it—the genius thinking that went into its creation.
Free of the shackles of obligation and imprisonment, I can appreciate why this is one of the most coveted and exclusive nightclubs in New York.
The atmosphere is sumptuous and sexy, the lights low and luxurious. Without staring—I’ve trained myself not to—I know that the outfits our guests wear are couture, the gems staggeringly authentic. But members need more than money to get a table here—they need connections, or—as I’ve slowly come to realize—something to lose. Ideally a reputation or a questionable enterprise worth billions.
I wear the host outfit with more pride than usual tonight, enjoying the way it elongates my legs and makes me feel sexy and expensive. I feel different wearing it tonight. Come to think of it, I’ve felt different regardless of my outfit, ever since Fieroshowed me the picture of Callum’s body parts floating in a pool of blood.
Markedly different.
Ten hours ago I walked out of his penthouse apartment a changed woman. The change didn’t happen overnight, although the events that led up to the evening certainly accelerated things. I’ve been changing little by little every day for the last month.
Sexually, I’m a completely different person. Fiero has taught me about pleasure—not just how I like to receive it but how I like to give it, too. Since losing my virginity, I’ve discovered how sexual I really am. I’m almost annoyed I waited so long, but then again, I wouldn’t have wanted to lose it to anyone else.
And that brings me on to Fiero.
