"Fine," she says, her voice clipped and sharp as shattered glass. "Talk."
The single word is a gift I don't deserve. I take a breath, the air catching in my throat. "I'm sorry," I start, and the words feel pathetic, inadequate. "I'm sorry for the party. I'm sorry for Brielle. I'm sorry for being an arrogant, selfish prick who thought he could get away with it. But that's not the real reason I'm here." I force myself to meet her gaze, to let her see the raw, ugly truth in my eyes. "After you left last night, I started reading the comments. About me. I can handle the hate. But then... they started talking about you."
My voice cracks, and I have to look down at the scuffed linoleum floor. "They called you an ice queen. A clout chaser. A psycho. They said you engineered the whole thing, that you get off on the power." I look back up, my own shame burning a hole in my chest. "I did that to you, Zoë. I put you in the crosshairs. I was so busy trying to clear my name that I didn't even thinkabout what it would do to yours. You built a shield around me, and they're calling you a monster for it. I'm going to absorb every single shitty thing they say about you so you never have to see it. It's my penance. I needed you to know that I see what I did. And I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air between us, my confession, my vow. All I can do now is wait for her verdict.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 33
Zoë
The silence in the hallway is thick enough to choke on. He stands there, his confession hanging in the air between us, a raw, bleeding thing. The man looks wrecked. The arrogant, posturing Gio from the party is gone, replaced by this man who just laid his own shame at my feet.
This is his new version of atonement. A new mission. In his mind, he can be my shield. To him, this is still a transaction. He broke it, so he’ll fix it. He hurt me, so now he’ll protect me. What he’s really doing is searching for a shortcut, a grand gesture that might erase the fundamental truth of his betrayal. **In his head, he gets to be the hero of my story—**when all he’s ever been is the villain.
A cold, hard certainty settles in my chest. He needs to understand what it means to be mine.
“Get on your knees,” I say softly.
The words are soft, but they hit the air like a gunshot.
Gio freezes. His chest stops moving for a second, then heaves in a sharp, ragged inhale. The arrogance drains out of him, leaving behind something raw and terrified. He looks at the hard tile floor, then back at me, his eyes searching for a joke, a loophole, a sign that I don’t mean this. I don’t blink. I just wait.
His jaw works, a muscle spasming as he fights a war with his own pride. This is Gio Rossi—star winger, the best player on the ice, the man who never bows to anyone. He’s used to people looking up to him. He’s used to being the one in control. But he’s also the man who just realized he would burn the world down if it meant keeping me.
Slowly, painfully, his knees buckle. He sinks to the floor, the denim of his jeans scraping against the tile. It’s a graceless descent, heavy and clumsy, but the visual is devastating. The landing is hard, his boots thudding dully.
Now he’s at eye level with my hips. To find my face, he has to crane his neck. The power shift is instantaneous, electric, and utterly undeniable. He looks wrecked already—his hair is a mess, his eyes are wide and dark, and his mouth is parted slightly like he can’t quite catch his breath.
“Zoë,” he breathes. My name sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Good,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “Now stay there.”
He shifts, restless, his hands coming up to grip my thighs. His fingers are strong, bruising, digging into the flesh above my knees like I’m the only solid thing in a spinning world. He presses his face forward, inhaling deeply against the fabric of my skirt, right at the apex of my thighs.
“Please,” he whispers, the word muffled by the cloth. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I was scared.”
“I know,” I say, staring down at the top of his head. “Words are cheap, Gio.”
He lets out a broken sound, half-groan, half-sob. He rubs his cheek against my skirt, his stubble catching on the material.
“Let me make it right. Let me taste you. I need to be inside you in any way you’ll let me.”
I look at him—this powerful, dangerous man kneeling at my feet, begging for scraps. My cunt clenches, a wet, vicious pulse that betrays my composure. I am angry, yes. But I am also starving. The adrenaline from the article drop is still humming in my veins, turning into something darker, heavier.
My hand tightens in his hair, grabbing a fistful and tilting his head back. He goes willingly, his throat exposed, his eyes locking onto mine. They are glazed, unfocused, filled with a desperate, terrifying need.
“If you want forgiveness,” I say, tightening my grip in his hair, “you earn it.”
“Yes,” he hisses. “Anything.”
Releasing his hair, I reach for the hem of my skirt. There’s no teasing. No drawing it out. The fabric gets dragged up in one clean motion, bunching around my waist. The air hits my skin, cool and shocking.
I’m bare for him.
Gio’s eyes drop. He stares at the lace of my underwear, black and barely there, already damp. He makes a sound low in his throat, a guttural noise of pure hunger. He leans in, his nose brushing against the lace, breathing me in like I’m oxygen.
