Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“I don’t believe in even,” he answers. “I believe in balance.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.” His eyes darken, voice low. “Even is forgiveness. Balance is knowing someone finally feels the weight you’ve been carrying for a years.”
Silence grips the table.
My mother stares at her plate.
My father drinks even more alcohol.
Rafe studies Lorenzo. There is something in his features I can’t read. If I had to guess, it’s worry, but maybe loyalty all tangled into one.
I squeeze my hands together under the table. You’ll survive this. You’re stronger than you think.
A tremor runs up my arm. Am I, though?
Lorenzo must see something in my gaze because he flashes me a warning. One that says whatever you’re thinking about . . . stop.
Too bad for him, he has no control over my thoughts.
My mother lifts her glass to her lips. “To the new family.”
Lorenzo raises his glass. “To mergers.”
I stare back at him, throat burning. “To surviving.”
We drink.
The meal is agonizing and through it all, Lorenzo watches.
Like he’s ten moves ahead in a game the rest of us are still learning the rules to.
When dessert plates are cleared, and coffee poured, he finally pushes his chair back, napkin dropped neatly on the table. “Walk with me,” he says, his gaze locking on mine.
It isn’t a request.
My spine freezes. “I’m fine here.”
His brow arches. “I wasn’t asking if you were fine. I’m telling you to walk.”
My mother opens her mouth, then closes it again.
I stand.
Because I don’t have a choice. Because the whole house knows it.
I follow him out of the dining room, the murmur of my parents’ voices fading behind us. He leads the way down the corridor, past portraits of dead Danforths. Ornate frames won’t hide the fact that we are new money and pretending to be the opposite, but at this point, I’d pretend to be anything not to have to go ahead with this sham of a wedding.
It’s pointless, though. Lorenzo will never let me go.
We reach the end of the hall, the moonlight spilling through the tall glass doors that lead out to the terrace.
“Why are we here? To discuss my cage?”
He steps closer. “You think this is about a cage?” he asks softly.
I meet his gaze, anger bubbling up inside me. “Isn’t it?”
His lips curl. “No, Little Bird. This is about a mirror.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means . . . ” He brushes a knuckle along the edge of my jaw in a touch that feels more like a threat. “You’re finally going to see what you turned me into.”
I swallow, refusing to let him see me flinch. “What kind of monster are you, Lorenzo?”
The smile that follows is slow, brutal, devastating. “The kind you made.”
He steps back, leaving the ghost of his touch and the echo of his words hanging between us.
The voices from the dining room drift faintly down the hall—my mother and father entertaining our future executioner with small talk.
And me?
I stand in my parents’ house, in a dress I didn’t choose, promised to a man I used to love and now barely recognize—
And realize I’m not waiting for a rescue.
I’m standing at the beginning of a war.
One I didn’t start. One I’m not sure I can win.
But one I’ll have to survive.
Because if Lorenzo Amante thinks he’s the only one who learned how to weaponize heartbreak—
He’s not paying close enough attention.
And that?
Might be the only advantage I have left.
32
Victoria
The gown hangs in front of the mirror, taunting me.
Silk. Lace. Hand-stitched beading that probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary. It’s beautiful in the way daggers are beautiful—intricate, polished, designed for one purpose.
Hmm…
Not a bad idea.
Death is certainly an option right now.
It would be easier than the road ahead of me, that much is for sure.
Helen, one of the older maids who’s been with us for years, stands behind me, fingers smoothing the bodice like she’s petting a wild animal she’s trying not to spook. “You’re shaking.” She pulls a loose thread near my shoulder.
“I’m not shaking,” I lie, and it’s obvious. My voice is way too flat to be telling the truth. “I’m perfectly fine. Just vibrating with happiness.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. She knows I’m full of shit. “Of course.” Her hands move to the laces at my back, tightening the corset in steady, practiced pulls. “Hold the rail,” she adds, nodding toward the post of the old canopy bed. “If you fall, I’m too old to catch you.”
I grab the post and exhale as she yanks the laces. “You’re not old,” I grit through my teeth as she pulls so tight I’m afraid I’ll pass out. “You’re in your prime. You put up with me and my father. That’s got to give you bonus points for a long life.”
“Or put me into an early grave.” She laughs. “Your father, I mean. You . . . You’re the easy one.”