Chapter Ten
Serena
It’s Wednesday. That means it’s time for another session with him.
Lorenzo Moretti.
Unfortunately.
Ever since our last appointment, a disaster I can’t erase from my mind, I’ve tried to prepare myself.
I spent the last two days buried in my textbooks, brushing up on psychotic disorders, narcissistic tendencies, and trauma bonding.
But deep down, I know it doesn’t matter how many papers I read or how much theory I memorize.
None of that will help me when I’m in the same room with him again.
Still, I force myself to act like it will. Like I’ve got this under control.
I grab my keys from the marble console near the door and check my reflection one last time before leaving.
My house is silent, the usual quiet echoing too loud in my ears.
My father’s already at work, and as for my mother?
God knows where she is. Lately, she’s been unusually cheerful, floating around like she’s living in some alternate reality.
And no, my father is definitely not the cause of her newfound happiness.
But I don’t ask questions. I’ve learned better than that.
As I step outside, I check my phone. There’s a handful of messages from Sienna, still in Japan, sending me updates like she’s starring in her own private movie.
Her pictures are beautiful, rooftop shots of Tokyo at night, cherry blossoms, hotel mirror selfies with ridiculous captions.
She looks happy. Really happy. And I want that for her.
I send her a quick mirror pic of my own, one I took before leaving. Just a shot of my outfit today. Tight black skirt, white silk blouse, soft curls in my hair, my black-rimmed glasses resting on my nose. More polished than usual.
Not for him.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I don’t dress like this because of Lorenzo Moretti. I do it because I want to look like I’m holding it all together. I want to look strong, untouchable, controlled. I want to look like I’m the one with the upper hand in that room.
But there’s a part of me, a darker, weaker part, that knows the truth.
Somewhere beneath all that confidence, my stomach twists at the thought of seeing him again.
His voice.
His eyes.
His hands.
I stand in front of the mirror, my heart racing as I inspect myself one last time before leaving for the appointment. My outfit is simple but polished, the kind of look that says I belong in the room, even if every part of me is screaming otherwise.
A crisp white blouse drapes softly over my body, the fabric light and delicate against my skin.
The top buttons are left undone, just enough to loosen the stiffness, but not enough to be inappropriate.
The sleeves are rolled up slightly, casually elegant, giving me room to breathe.
The material is sheer in some lights, but tucked into my skirt it looks professional, barely.
My skirt is a black high-waisted pencil skirt that hugs my hips and curves like a second skin.
It’s tight. Maybe too tight for a prison visit, but it’s all I could grab without overthinking.
It ends mid-thigh, exposing just enough to make me question my life choices, but I don’t change.
I can’t bring myself to. I need the armor.
I need to feel like I have control over something tonight, even if it’s just my outfit.
My legs feel longer in the high heels I forced onto my feet. Black stilettos, pointed toes, sharp enough to stab. The clicks they make when I walk are part of the act, the role I’m playing. Confident. Put together. In control.
Yeah, right.
My blonde hair falls down my back in soft, loose curls, the kind I do when I don’t want to look like I tried too hard but still need to look... presentable. The blonde highlights catch the light as I tilt my head, and for a second, I pretend I’m someone else. Someone less nervous.
I slip on my glasses, oversized, black-rimmed, a thin barrier between me and the world. They make me look professional, smarter, detached. They hide the way my eyes dart when I’m anxious, the way they always seem to give too much away.
I leave the house and drive straight to the prison, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than they need to.
The city blurs past me, but it’s not like I’m paying attention to traffic.
My playlist is blasting through the speakers, “Worst Behavior” by Kwn ft.
Kehlani repeating for the fifth time since I left the driveway.
It’s stupid, I know, but I keep hitting repeat anyway.
The lyrics seep into my skin, curl around my thoughts, and settle low in my stomach like a storm that refuses to pass.
Of course my mind drifts to him.
To Lorenzo freaking Moretti.
By the third repeat of the song, my thighs press together unconsciously.
By the fourth, my lips part just enough to let out a shallow breath.
By the fifth, I know I’m setting myself up for disaster, but it’s my favorite song for a reason.
Kwn has a way of making you question everything, your morals, your limits, even your sexuality.
She knows exactly what girls like to hear, and right now, I hate how much of myself I see in every line.
Twenty minutes fly by.
I pull into the staff parking lot, shutting off the engine but leaving the song stuck in my head, echoing in my veins like a taunt. I grab my bag, slam the door shut, and head straight inside, my heels clicking against the concrete with more confidence than I actually feel.
All eyes are on me the second I step into the building.
Some of it is curiosity. Most of it is envy or lust. I don’t need a mirror to know that.
The women? Their eyes cut sharp, wondering who the hell I think I am, walking in here like this.
The men? Their gazes are heavy, lingering in places they shouldn’t be, as if they’ve forgotten what professional boundaries are.
And they all know exactly who I am.
Thomas Beaumont’s daughter. The new FBI recruit. The pretty little nepo baby playing doctor with the criminals.
Let them talk.
I don’t really care.
They’ll talk anyway. May as well give them a good view while they do it.
At the reception desk, a new guy is fumbling, clearly lost. His face is flushed as he struggles to locate Lorenzo Moretti’s file.
Before I can offer to help, Ian materializes behind me like a shadow. He’s holding the file, apparently the reason the rookie couldn’t find it.
“Looking for this?” Ian’s voice is smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it. He hands me the folder, his eyes scanning me from head to toe like I’m a shiny new toy he’d love to unwrap.
“You look gorgeous.”
There it is, the trademark Ian smile, perfect white teeth flashing like he’s posing for a campaign ad. His eyes stay a beat too long on my body, and the warmth in his tone sours when he adds, “You should be careful with that brute.”
That brute.
Right. Lorenzo.
I smile back, polite, sweet, mask on. “Thank you,” I murmur, flipping open the file as if his comment is already forgotten. But my stomach twists in knots.
I glance at the clock.
09:59 AM.
Shit.
“I should go,” I say, my voice breezy even though my pulse isn’t. I’m already halfway down the hall before Ian can say anything else, but I catch him in the corner of my eye, still watching me as I leave.
When I get to the room, he’s already there.
Lorenzo.
Leaning back in the chair like he owns the place.
Legs parted, relaxed like he’s expecting a lap dance rather than a therapy session.
His dark brown hair is a mess, falling over his forehead in a way that shouldn’t look this good, but of course it does.
He’s wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, both hugging his frame like they were made for him, his tattooed arms fully on display.
His eyes, those wicked, unreadable eyes, follow me lazily as I walk in.
The guard gives me a look of disapproval.
Yeah, yeah, I’m late.
I give him a silent apology with my eyes.
“Do you need help with anything?” the guard asks, lingering.
“No, thank you,” I say, forcing a smile. “You can go.”
“I’ll be back in an hour to take him back to his cell. Another guard will be outside.”
And just like that, I’m alone with him.
With Lorenzo Moretti.
The door clicks shut behind the guard, and I feel it, heat prickling along my skin. His eyes haven’t left me for a second, scanning my body like he’s reading my thoughts. Like he knows exactly why I chose this skirt, these heels, this lip gloss.
Gosh, why does he have to be so damn hot?
Since our first encounter, I’ve been walking around like a hormonal teenager, and today is no different. My heart is hammering, my thighs are pressed together again, and all I can think is:
This is going to be a long hour.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low, amused. His eyes trail lazily over my body, and I know he’s staring at my ass, he isn’t even trying to hide it.
I grip my notebook tighter in my lap, flipping it open and pushing his file aside, trying to keep my composure. “I’m five minutes late,” I hiss back, sharper than I intended, but my pulse is already racing and he knows it. He fucking knows it.
His gaze doesn’t move.
Neither does that smirk.
Gosh, that face.
The sharpness of his jaw, the slight stubble shadowing his cheeks, the way his lips curve like he’s already won. His tongue slides slowly against his teeth, and it shouldn’t make my thighs clench, but it does.
And then he stands.
Freaking hell. He’s huge.
The air shifts as he towers over me, all 6’4 of him, a wall of muscle and tattoos, predatory calm wrapped in black jeans and a T-shirt.
I’m 5’2 and sitting, feeling every bit of that height difference as he smirks down at me, hands casually tucked into his pockets, like this is his office and I’m just visiting.
I swallow, trying to refocus.
Professional. Stay professional.
“I think it’s better if you sit,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It might be uncomfortable for you to stand the whole session.”
His lips twitch, his gaze sharp and heavy, like he’s stripping me bare right here in this chair. And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls out his phone and starts texting, right in front of me.
Rude.
My stomach tightens, heat crawling under my skin, but I keep my face neutral. Well, I try.
His eyes lift slowly from the screen, pinning me again, wicked amusement dancing in those dark blue irises. “The only one uncomfortable sitting will be you, princess.”
His voice is cruel. Deliciously cruel. Like he knows exactly how to twist the knife and make me like it.
Then I hear it.
The sound of leather sliding through belt loops.
My heart stops.
My eyes snap to his hands, and sure enough, he’s pulling off his belt. Smooth, slow, deliberate. The leather slides between his fingers like he’s teasing me with the idea of what he could do with it.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice comes out breathless, barely a whisper.
He closes the distance between us in two lazy steps, his belt dangling from one hand, the other running through his dark brown hair, pushing it back in that cocky, infuriating way of his.
“Now bend over.”