He leans forward and rests his forehead against my stomach, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my skirt. The way he holds me says he’s afraid I’m going to disappear.
I stand there, my heart hammering in my chest, and look down at him. My anger is gone, burned away by the heat of his mouth. In its place is something else—something heavy and terrifyingly intimate.
I lift a hand and stroke his hair, my fingers combing through the dark strands. A ragged, exhausted sigh leaves him as he presses closer.
“Good boy,” I whisper again.
He laughs, a hoarse, broken sound. He presses a kiss to my stomach, through the fabric of my shirt.
“I’m yours,” he murmurs, his voice muffled. “I’m fucking yours, Zoë. Never again. I swear.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Stand up.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, a clear reluctance to leave the sanctuary of my hips, but obedience wins. His long body unfolds, knees popping slightly as he stands.
Towering over me again, the dynamic has shifted. He’s just present.
When he looks down at me, his hand comes up to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lip, wiping away a smear of moisture I didn’t know was there. His eyes search my face—looking for forgiveness, looking for absolution. I let him look. I let him see me—see that I’m still here.
“Are we okay?” he asks, his voice rough.
“We’re working on it,” I say, which is the truth.
He nods, accepting it. He leans down and presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine. For a second, we just breathe together, suspended in the quiet aftermath.
Then, a loud cheer erupts from the living room, followed by the sound of glass clinking. The guys are toasting. The moment breaks, the reality of the outside world rushing back in.
Gio pulls back, a crooked smile touching his lips. He looks disheveled—his hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and his face still smells like my cunt. He looks happy.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to me. “Let’s go celebrate.”
I look at his hand—calloused, strong, the hand that just held me down while he made me come apart. I reach out and take it.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He interlaces our fingers, squeezing tight, and leads me out of the hallway, back toward the noise, back toward the war room. We walk out together, and this time, he doesn’t let go.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 34
Zoë
Steam hisses from the industrial iron, clouding the air with the scent of scorching fabric and hairspray. It’s organized chaos back here—models in various states of undress, dressers shouting over the thumping bass of the runway playlist, racks of garments rolling over concrete floors.
I stand in the center of it, letting the noise wash over me, sharpening my focus until it feels like a blade. My reflection in the mirror gets one last check. The emerald silk clings to my body, the color deep and violent, like a bruise healed into something beautiful. The black geometric inset draws the eye—a sharp, angular slash across the torso that mimics broken glass, held together by gold stitching. It’s armor. It’s a warning. It’s the story of us, rewritten in fabric and thread.
My hands are steady. The nerves that used to paralyze me have calcified into something useful. I am the talent. I’m not the girl standing next to the star player.
“Zoë, you’re on in five,” the stage manager barks, her headset flashing.
I nod, turning toward the heavy velvet curtain that separates the backstage dark from the blinding runway lights. I step up to the edge, peering through the gap.
The audience is a sea of heads, but I find her instantly. Elena Moretti. She’s sitting in the front row, center aisle, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my tuition. She’s checking her phone, looking bored, completely unimpressed by the student walking the runway right now.
My stomach tightens with the weight of the moment. This is it. The line between who I was and who I’m becoming. I take a breath, smoothing the silk over my hips. I’ll give them something worth looking at.
A shadow falls over the gap in the curtain, cutting off my view of the front row. I know the weight of that silence.
