Chapter 7 Estella #3
A coil of tension twists in my lower stomach, threatening to fold me in half, but I clamp the cup tighter, knuckles whitening with the effort. Heat surges through me, and a bead of sweat slides down my temple.
“Go out… where?” Dante asks, snapping me from my trance. I blink at him, but his gaze is fixed on Cane.
“There are a lot of interesting places in Barcelona,” he answers calmly, rising from the couch. “Estella will gladly show you around.” He slips on his coat and runs a hand through his dark hair, making it messier. “I have a meeting. Can’t stay longer.”
“At least eat some more cake,” I insist, lacing my voice with fake pleading. “Please?”
He steps closer, placing his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs trace soothing circles through the thin fabric of my robe as he meets my gaze. “You know I can’t be late,” he says gently. “Next time, okay?”
“At least let me pack it for you,” I plead.
A small, teasing smile tugs at his lips. “Okay. You do that while I put my shoes on.”
I pull back, heart hammering with excitement, and dash toward the counter. My fingers deftly work through the shelves, lifting the small carton boxes and arranging the cake pieces inside, each one snug and perfect. I tuck the cartons into a paper bag and cradle it as I rush back toward him.
Cane leans casually against the doorframe, the morning light catching the lines of his face. As I approach, he straightens, extending his hands toward me with that warm, effortless smile. “Thank you,” he says, reaching for the bag.
I don’t let go, holding the bag firmly even as he tugs at it. “Share it with your daughter,” I murmur after a beat, my voice as soft and smooth as the silk of my robe.
The moment I mention her, his smile falters, eyes dropping. A spark of worry flashes there, quickly masked by a nervous blink. I ease my grip just enough to push the bag toward him, my lips twitching in quiet amusement.
The way he cares about her… sometimes it feels like he treats her better than me.
Cane’s lips press into a thin line, and for this fleeting instant, I relish the way color drains from his face.
I lift my hand, brushing his cheek, tugging it ever so slightly.
“Have a nice meeting,” I whisper, a smile playing at my lips.
He stares back at me, silently, while worry deepens in his eyes.
He always forgets that I know everything about him—and that I could take all of it away if I ever chose to.
He clears his throat, turns, and pulls the door open. A second later, it slams shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment. My smile slips. I stare at the closed door as a slow, creeping dissociation washes over me.
Sometimes I just… drift away. My body goes numb, my mind lifts out of it, and fatigue settles so heavily in my bones that I want nothing more than to collapse into bed.
It always means the same things.
I’m bored, and I’m tired. Even the things meant to thrill me burn bright for a heartbeat before extinguishing just as fast.
And if nothing in this world can hold my excitement for long, then what’s the point of any of it?
A memory flickers through my mind—Dante’s voice, low and honest, describing the emptiness after his first kills. Something in those words struck a chord inside me, bringing a sharp recognition.
That same hollow sensation drifts through me now.
“How about a movie?”
I flinch, spinning instinctively to face him. He leans against the wall, a towering silhouette that seems almost too large for the cozy confines of my apartment. I swipe a bead of sweat from my forehead.
“What?” I ask, my voice tight, caught between confusion and surprise, unable to grasp the simplicity of his question.
He shrugs, muscles rippling under his shirt with ease. “We could watch something. What genre do you like?”
I pause, letting my mind drift back to the day I had planned before two men stormed in and ruined everything. “Not sure about the genre,” I admit slowly, “and not sure we’re even going to watch it together. Either way, I need to hit a flea market first to buy it.”
“Interesting. Old school much?” he probes curiously.
I stride toward the other room, brushing past him, and catch a trace of his scent—dark, magnetic, fucking impossible to ignore.
My teeth find my lower lip, a reflex to distract myself from the pull it has over me.
Familiarity and temptation curl together in my chest, and for a moment, I don’t want to resist either.
“Just find it more interesting,” I murmur lazily, drawing closer to my favorite corner of the apartment—my closet.
It’s a quiet jewel hidden behind a frosted glass door, like a secret chamber carved out for me alone. I grasp the handle and pull the doors open, inhaling sharply as clouds of my carefully curated perfumes roll out to greet me.
The walls are lined in soft cream velvet, polished brass rods glinting under the gentle glow of recessed lighting. Each hanger, crafted from natural wood with gold hooks, is perfectly spaced, catching the light just enough to make every garment feel like treasure.
“That’s a lot of clothes,” Dante says from behind me, his voice laced with surprise.
I click my tongue, shooting him a sharp look over my shoulder. “Listen, you can either help me or get the fuck out and wait outside. I need to think.”
He takes a step closer, and I feel it—the slight invasion of space that sets my teeth on edge. If he sneezes on my clothes, well, that would give me a perfectly valid excuse to kill him.
I inhale, forcing myself to focus on what’s in front of me.
Polka-dot blouses in airy silk, their playful patterns softened by muted pastels and delicate black-and-white contrasts.
Flowery dresses—lavender, rose, deep emerald—hang beside them, their fabrics whispering luxury with every subtle sway.
Chiffon, silk, satin, each piece draping as if sculpted by an invisible hand.
Below, shelves display stacks of folded cashmere sweaters, meticulously aligned next to leather handbags. Strappy stilettos, sleek loafers, pointed pumps—every pair imported from Parisian and Milanese ateliers.
“Can I have a say?” Dante asks, uncertainty lacing his tone.
I roll my eyes, irritation flashing across my face. “Obviously.”
He leans in, close enough for the warmth of him to skim my shoulder, and points to a polka-dot sleeveless blouse paired with black trousers.
“I’m sure you’d look good in anything here,” he begins, words steadying with growing confidence, “but these might work best today.”
The corners of my lips shoot up, and I appreciate that he doesn’t dare touch the fabric himself. I slide the hangers off the rod and study the pieces briefly before carrying them to the bed, laying them out so the light can fall over them properly.
“Not bad for a starter,” I muse, letting mockery drip through my tone. It’s enough to earn a low chuckle from him.
“And black loafers,” he adds, “to match the pattern.”
I turn to him slowly, eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise. “You know what they’re called? Color me impressed.”
He nods, amusement rippling across his face, brief and fleeting. Then, without warning, a sour image flashes behind my eyes—another woman beside him, picking clothes, his hands brushing fabric that isn’t mine. Heat erupts in my chest, sharp and sudden, nearly knocking the air from me.
I stumble a little, a frown pulling tight across my face as I try to understand where the fuck that emotion even crawled out from.
It’s just… the idea of him standing close to someone else, watching her dress, touching her...
It sends something vicious through me—a flash of anger so irrational, so primal, it almost frightens me because of how out-of-place it feels.
I cross the room in quick, decisive steps, slip back into the closet, and pluck the black loafers from their shelf. Carrying them out, I place them beside the rest of the outfit, completing the look with practiced precision.
“I’ve never been to a flea market,” Dante says behind me. He must sense the fumes rolling off me, thick enough to poison the air between us.
I turn as my brows lift, suspicion sharpening my gaze as I skim him for a lie. But he only shrugs, offering a soft, almost boyish smirk.
“Just never had the chance,” he admits. “Or the desire.”
“You can go somewhere else if you don’t want to go,” I snap, my voice still burning from the jealousy I refuse to fully acknowledge.
He presses his lips together. “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, as cocky as ever. “And I want to go with you.”
Of course he does.
I flick my hand toward the door, dismissive. “Wait for me in the corridor then. I need to get dressed.”
He taps two fingers against his arm before pushing off and walking out. My eyes follow him until his silhouette is swallowed by the hallway, and only then do I let out a slow, simmering breath.
I just need to stay calm. A little shopping, a little distraction—anything to keep me from snapping and doing something regrettable to him or anyone else.