27. Azra
Azra
It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since my fight with Matteo.
The silence between us feels suffocating, and my chest hums with tension every time I breathe.
I keep telling myself I shouldn’t care so much, that the hollow ache from him not returning to his room last night brings me closer to my dreams. But the truth is, I do care.
The ache is real, and the emptiness he left behind feels too vast for someone who was never supposed to matter.
A tray of food appeared outside my door after sunset.
I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide whether it was from Matteo or someone else.
Not being able to tell made everything worse.
If it was him, then he still cares enough to make sure I eat.
If it wasn’t, then he doesn’t care enough to check on me at all.
Both possibilities hurt in different ways.
Everyone has been distant today. Anyone would swear I was the one who broke Matteo’s heart instead of the other way around. The awkwardness has grown so dense that I’ve caught myself wishing I could leave.
I can’t, though. I’m not Antonio’s bride yet.
Until that happens, I have nowhere else to go.
Walking down the stairwell, I smooth the fabric of the dress Matteo picked for me. Tonight is the private event we’re scheduled to attend. We’re supposed to show up together and keep up the ruse that’s become more complicated than I expected.
Valentina waits at the bottom of the stairs. When she looks up, her expression softens, making me feel both comforted and exposed. “Azra… you look beautiful.” Her voice is gentle, but her eyes carry a sadness I haven’t yet accepted.
I muster a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Elio and Nico near the foyer. Elio is holding Nico back and whispering something low and urgent into his ear.
Seeing them almost come to blows twists my stomach. I’m skeptical they’re talking about me, but I sense the pressure of their attention, spotlighting my every move.
“Have you seen Matteo?” I ask Valentina. I keep my voice light, even though my pulse is pounding in my throat. “We need to leave soon or we’ll be late. Tardiness and I aren’t friends.”
She gives me another soft smile. This one is even sadder than the first.
“Are you okay?”
Before she can respond, Giovanni clears his throat. “Matteo said he’ll meet you there.”
My balk is strong enough to ripple the air. “He left?”
Giovanni nods. “About an hour ago.”
His response hits me like a punch. Matteo leaving without me feels like a punishment, but it also confirms everything I feared last night.
This is just a game to him.
I nod, pretending his humiliating dismissal doesn’t matter.
I’m a horrible actor.
With his hand on my back, Giovanni walks me outside and assists me into an SUV. As I settle into the seat, my eyes drift toward the garage, searching for something I know I won’t find.
Matteo’s motorcycle is gone.
The knowledge painfully twists the knife still lodged in my heart. Thankfully, beneath the hurt, there’s a flicker of relief and gratitude. Even though he left without me, he’s still following the plan. He’s still keeping up appearances.
The drive to the event feels longer than it should. When I slip out of the SUV, the difference from two nights ago is jarring. The paparazzi barely glance at me. Their cameras don’t flash, and their voices don’t rise. They don’t care who I am unless I’m on the arm of a man.
The realization stings more than I’d like to acknowledge.
I’m arm candy. That’s all I am to them.
After the attendant checks off my name at the door, I step inside.
Opulence washes over me. Crystals drip from the chandeliers, and the polished marble floors shine like mirrors.
Silk linens and gold-rimmed glassware decorate tables that could seat a hundred, and the air is thick with a luxury that intoxicates and suffocates.
I can’t quite remember what this event is about. I think it’s related to a new liquor line, but I’m not completely sure. Antonio only ever told me what I needed to know—nothing more—and I never asked for details.
A server walks by with a tray of champagne, and I snag a glass, hoping the bubbles will soothe my nerves. I take a sip and nearly choke on the delicate taste. Across the room, near the bar, stands Matteo.
He’s not alone.
A beautiful blonde draped herself over him. Her manicured hand rests on his chest, and she presses her body intimately close to his. They appear cozy—extremely so—and the sight is both surprising and humiliating.
Jealousy surges through me so fast that it blurs my vision.
I consider storming across the room and ripping her away from him, but I stop myself.
I refuse to repeat the mistakes of my past. Jealousy turns me into someone I dislike, and I refuse to give anyone, especially Matteo, the satisfaction of seeing me lose control again this week.
Instead, I turn on my heel and sprint out of the building, my heart pounding.
There has to be an easier way than this. My heart can’t handle much more.
I don’t notice the uneven cobblestone sidewalk until it’s too late. My heel catches, and I stumble, falling hard. Pain shoots up my legs as my knees scrape against the stone, and blood wells up in thin red lines.
Behind me, a deep voice asks, “Are you okay?”
I freeze. I recognize that voice. It doesn’t belong to Matteo; it belongs to Antonio.
With his face scrunched in concern, he reaches out to help me up.
Instinctively, I jerk back. I don’t know why. I doubt Antonio will lose his hands if he touches me. Matteo’s threat was all part of his ruse to make me believe he cares about me more than he does.
Still, I get to my feet before Antonio’s hands make contact.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though my knees are throbbing.
“You’re bleeding,” he replies, his voice soft and sympathetic.
“I’m fine.” Repeating the mantra might make it come true. “It’s barely a graze.”
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Antonio guides me toward an idling limousine at the curb. His hand hovers close enough to direct my steps, but not close enough to touch.
Anyone would swear he knows about the rule, that he’s aware he can’t lay a finger on me.
Antonio leaps two steps ahead and opens the limo door for me. I take a cautious step inside, but just before I fully enter, something compels me to look up.
Matteo is at the top of the stairs, alone, glaring down at us. His eyes are dark, and he has a stony expression.
With Antonio beside me and Matteo above me, everything I thought I knew shifts beneath my feet. Not trusting my shaky legs to keep me upright, I stumble into the limousine more than I glide.
Antonio watches me with a strangely gentle expression.
It’s a mask he’s taking for a test drive.
When he crouches beside me, I brace myself for the version of him I’ve always known—the cold, calculating, impatient man who never hid his irritation when I inconvenienced him.
Instead, he leans forward and blows gently across my scraped knees.
The warm air brushing over the sting startles me so much that I am rendered breathless.
He doesn’t touch me, not even accidentally.
The restraint is so unlike him that I can only stare, confused and wary.
Eyes locked on mine, he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a small packet of Band-Aids.
He offers them to me with a softness that feels rehearsed, as though he’s attempting to rewrite every memory I have of him with this one moment.
I try to play along, but my efforts are pitiful.
I need more than exemplary acting skills to pretend I’m not still reeling from seeing Matteo with a woman draped over him.
The hurt is too raw and vicious, meaning I snatch the Band-Aids out of Antonio’s hand with a defensive movement that betrays exactly how fragile I feel, rather than politely accepting them.
He neither flinches nor scolds.
He doesn’t even blink.
With quiet intensity, he simply observes me before asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” My reply is brittle and unconvincing, but since I don’t care what this man thinks of me, I reach for the limo door, intending to put some distance between us. It isn’t like a bitchy response will ruin my plan. Treating him mean is certainly keeping him interested.
Before I can exit, I realize the limousine is moving.
“Where are we going?” I clutch the seat as the city lights smear past the tinted windows. “I have prior arrangements.”
Antonio’s mouth forms something that’s not quite a smile. “With Matteo?”
Just hearing his name stings like a thousand bees.
Since talking is above me, I nod.
Antonio’s tone is casual but deliberately cruel. “Hate to tell you, but the party started before you got there. He’s been playing tonsil hockey with the woman he arrived with for over an hour.”
His snicker knocks the air out of me. I can’t speak or think. I can’t do anything except replay the image of Matteo with that blonde.
The jealousy inside me burns so intensely that I feel physically sick.
I spend the entire drive striving to suppress the anger that rises in waves. On repeat, I remind myself that this is all part of the game, that Matteo can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. I have no right to feel anything about it, but the logic does little to ease the pain in my chest.
By the time the limo pulls up in front of a small pastry shop tucked between two shuttered boutiques, my anger has dulled. However, it is no less painful. When Antonio slips out and signals for me to follow, I do. Partly because I’m too tired to argue, but mostly because I need a distraction.
“We can talk here,” he says, leading me inside. “In private.”
Softly lit and cozy, the shop has a warm atmosphere. The smell of sugar and espresso fills the air, transporting me back to yesterday and the bakery across from the bridal shop.
The pain of the memory is so intense that I have to swallow hard.
Antonio acts like a gentleman—another unfamiliarity. He orders two large slices of cake before sliding the bigger one toward me. His gesture is so deliberate that I can’t help wondering if he saw Matteo and me at the bakery yesterday.
Is he copying something he thinks worked?
Needing to keep my hands busy, I dig the fork into the cake and veer a sizeable chunk toward my mouth. Antonio watches me with an intensity that prickles my skin.
It isn’t in a good way.
I inhale chocolate flakes into my lungs when he whispers, “I missed you.” He smiles as if I am choked up over his confession. That’s not me. I’m trying not to die from suffocation. “I didn’t realize what I had until it was too late.”
His words should carry weight. Trigger a response. They should be significant.
They don’t.
It’s not because I think he’s lying—though he probably is—but because I can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying since something outside the window has caught my attention.
A motorcycle sits in the shadow of a streetlight. The engine is running, and a helmet covers the motorcyclist’s face, but his build is unmistakable.
I would recognize it anywhere.
Matteo is here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Burning holes through the glass with a narrowed gaze.
“Azra,” Antonio says, endeavoring to secure my attention. “Did you hear what I said? I want you back.”
Slowly, painfully so, I drift my eyes back to Antonio. “What?”
His smirk is seedy. “I want you back.” He slides his hand across the table, stopping just short of the finger he ripped a six-carat diamond ring from only days ago. “Do you want that, too? Do you still want to be Azra Adami?”
My heart screams at me to say no, to shake my head, to reject his offer, but all that comes out is a squeaked, “Yes.”
Before I can blink, the bright eye of a motorcycle headlight whizzes past the pastry shop’s window with a familiar growl that vibrates through my bones.