"You managed me," I say, the realization settling cold and heavy in my stomach. "You didn't protect me. You managed the situation so you wouldn't have to deal with my stress."
"I'm the person who fixes things when they're broken," he says, his jaw set. "You're welcome."
The words hang in the air between us, dripping with a condescension so thick I can taste it. It's the final straw. The cold, hard fury that's been building in my chest since I saw that empty chair finally ignites.
"No," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. I pull my wrist out of his grip, the movement sharp and deliberate. "You're the person who breaks things and then pays to have the mess cleaned up."
I take a step closer, getting right in his face, so close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "You broke my trust when you went behind my back. You broke my project when you made my victory meaningless. And you tried to break my spirit by making me feel like a damsel in distress who can't handle her own shit."
I poke him in the chest again, harder this time, my finger a weapon. "The only thing you didn't break was me."
His face pales. The arrogance in his eyes flickers, replaced by something that looks dangerously like shock. He opens his mouth, but I'm not finished.
"This was a deal, Gio. A ruse. A transaction. You held up your end of the bargain, and now you need to hold up yours. The part where you stay the fuck out of my life. My battles. My studio."
"That's not what this is," he starts, his voice rough.
"Isn't it?" I cut him off, my voice dropping to a near-whisper that's more menacing than a shout. "Just because we've fucked doesn't change the terms. The contract is fulfilled. You got your public girlfriend, I got my internship ticket. We're even."
"Even?" He repeats the word like it's a foreign language. "Zoë, that's not—"
"The deal is over, Gio. Back off."
I turn to walk away, but he moves faster than I expect. His hand slams against the wall, cutting off my path. He doesn't touch me, but he creates a cage I can't ignore.
"You want to walk?" he says, his voice low and lethal. "Go ahead. But the internship goes with me."
I freeze. I stare at his chest, refusing to look up. He's using my future as a weapon. He's holding the only thing I actually care about hostage.
"You wouldn't," I say.
"I made the call to get you in," he counters. "I can make another call to get you out. Elena Moretti owes me a favor, Zoë. Not you. If you walk out that door, you're walking away from your career."
I look up then. I meet his gaze, and I see the challenge in it. He's demanding submission.
"You're a bastard," I say.
"I'm the only reason you have a future," he says. "You want to play the victim? Fine. But you don't get to play the victim and the rebel at the same time. Pick one."
If I stay, I lose my autonomy. If I go, I lose my career.
"I'm not playing anything," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "I'm done."
Ducking under his arm, I walk away, leaving him standing there in the empty hallway. The silence I leave behind is heavier than any argument. It's the sound of a contract being torn in half.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 27
Zoë
The studio is a graveyard. Indigo stains the concrete like a permanent bruise, and ruined emerald silk hangs on the half-form like a shroud. In the middle of the room, fists clenched at my sides, breath becomes the only focus. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A technique for centering, for finding control. Right now, it feels like trying to suck air through a straw.
This gets fixed.
Stiff movements carry me to the worktable. The seam ripper waits there. Small. Sharp. Perfect for precise destruction. From there, it's back to the dress, hand steady as the pointed end slides under the first stitch. This is dismantling. One thread at a time.
Snip, snip, snip—the sharp, satisfying sound of thread giving way fills the room. The damaged hem goes first. Then everything else. That princess seam that curves over the hip. Snip. TheFrench seam down the back. Snip. The delicate gathering at the shoulder. Snip.
