30. Azra
Azra
Iclutch the results of the purity test in my hand.
I passed. Mercifully. It should have never been a question, but I didn’t lie when I said my dream felt real.
From what I’ve been able to puzzle together over the past hour, when I passed out from sexual exhaustion, that was the end of my exchange with Matteo.
He didn’t spoon me, and he most certainly didn’t penetrate me.
Regretfully.
Hating my disobedient inner monologue, I grip the report so firmly that the paper crinkles.
Now is not the time for doubt. I’m sitting in an SUV, alone, staring at the front doors of the Caruso mansion, waiting for Matteo to show up.
It’s time to go back to the life I’d give anything to forget exists for another hour, to the ruse I hope will someday let me live as freely as I have in recent days.
I wait for ten minutes.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
By the time an hour passes, the silence becomes unbearable. It presses against my ribs like a weight I can’t lift and upsets my stomach.
He’s not coming.
Of course not. Why would he?
He made his trade. He got what he wanted.
It isn’t me.
Swallowing hard, I tap the driver on the shoulder. “You can go,” I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.
He locks eyes with me in the rearview mirror. “Are you sure? We can wait a little longer if you need more time to think it over.”
Me? Why would I need more time? Staying isn’t an option. Right?
I shift my eyes back to the mansion before I slowly nod. “I’m sure.”
He’s clearly not coming, so I don’t know why I need to continue torturing myself.
The driver sighs before he pulls the SUV away from the mansion. I look forward, not back, because looking back will hurt too much.
I have suffered enough burns over the past forty-eight hours.
But then a sound rumbles through my chest. A deep, familiar rev, and I twist in my seat so fast that my neck twinges.
Matteo is following the convoy on his motorcycle. He’s tailing the long line of SUVs, following like a shadow that refuses to detach itself.
Confusion crashes over me so hard that before my head can advise my heart against it, I climb into the passenger seat to get a better view of him in the side mirror.
Although a full visor hides his face, I can tell he is tense.
His posture is rigid, and his grip on the handlebars whitens his knuckles.
As he mimics the turns of the SUVs, a million questions flood my head.
Why is he following?
Why did he help me during the purity test?
Why didn’t he fight for me?
But the most important question of all… why did he kiss me after the nightclub if everything he did was part of our ploy to deceive Antonio?
No one could see us then. No one was watching.
We had another two days before we were scheduled to attend an event with Antonio.
Any effect he was aiming for would have worn off by then, so why kiss me like that?
Why step back like he didn’t want to take advantage of me and then stroke his cock as if the tension was too much for him to bear?
Before I can hunt for a single answer to the questions clawing at my mind, the convoy slows.
We’ve arrived.
The Adami compound looms ahead, cold and imposing.
Almost the entire family gathers on the front stairs, seemingly posing for a portrait.
It’s strange. When I arrived months ago, there was no fanfare or acknowledgment of my journey.
I took a taxi from the airport and handed my credentials to the security guard at the gate.
I was just another package delivered to their door.
My confusion about the change-up disappears when it dawns on me that today’s arrival is different.
Isabella is fluffing her hair in the front foyer window. Once her curls fall in perfect waves, she checks her makeup and adjusts her dress as if she’s preparing for a date, not a handover.
They’re not welcoming me home.
They’re farewelling Isabella with the hope that her advanced sexual maturity will form a tight alliance with the Carusos.
When the driver opens my door, Antonio steps forward. His hand slides possessively around my waist the moment I exit the SUV, and I force myself not to show even a flicker of the disgust crawling up my spine.
Following the direction of his gaze, I discover the reason for his unusual show of possessiveness. He’s staring at the bike following the convoy. Matteo is still there, watching.
Antonio’s grip tightens. His fingers dig into my waist hard enough to bruise, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from reacting.
I’m just a trade-in, I remind myself on repeat when Isabella gallops down the front stairs, eager to leave. None of it was real.
Matteo doesn’t dismount his bike when he spots Isabella’s approach. He doesn’t offer her a helmet, nor does he acknowledge her presence.
He just stares—at me.
It takes everything in me not to run to him and demand answers, and others are aware of this too.
Antonio’s breath brushes my ear when he whispers words he knows will root my feet to the ground. “If you want to know what happened to Hattie, smile and wave goodbye.”
After mustering an innocent expression, I peer up at him. “What do you mean? Hattie committed suicide.”
He gives me a look—a cruel, knowing look—that speaks volumes.
The dumb act won’t work on him anymore.
His grip tightens again, firm enough to catch my breath.
I should be scared. I should be terrified.
I’m not.
I’m desperate for answers, so I do exactly what he wants.
While pretending everything is fine, I smile and wave.
Seconds later, Matteo takes off like a bat out of hell. His bike skids down the driveway, leaving Isabella in the dust. Her mouth drops open when the convoy of SUVs follows him instead of staying behind to collect her and her belongings.
Unease flows through my veins as she turns to glare at me with narrowed eyes and curled lips.
Shrugging, I step out of Antonio’s grip. “Maybe he didn’t think it was safe to take you on his bike,” I mutter, my voice sweet as poison.
Her face twists, and for the first time since this nightmare began, the faintest spark of satisfaction awakens my heart.