Chapter Fourteen
Serena
I’m in the room with him again.
This twisted little game of his has become routine, three times per week, he demands to see me under the guise of discussing his so-called “mental health issues.”
But Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti isn’t looking for help. He’s a freaking psychopath, and we both know it.
These sessions aren’t about progress or therapy, they’re about him. About his sick need to toy with me, to ask me uncomfortable, inappropriate questions that have absolutely nothing to do with his supposed “problems.”
It’s just me and him now, and the tension in the room is unbearable, pressing down on me like a weight I can’t shake.
“Hi, Lorenzo,” I say flatly, my tone betraying just how tired I am of this charade.
This game, this constant back and forth, is starting to eat away at me. It makes me feel small, like I’m failing at the very thing I’ve been trained to do.
Is it me? Am I the problem?
“Hi, princess,” he replies, his voice dripping with a fake sweetness that only makes my irritation grow.
“Please,” he adds with a smug smile, leaning back in his chair, “don’t hide your excitement at seeing me.”
His tone is amused, mocking, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
So funny, asshole.
The only reason I’m still sitting here, enduring this, is the paycheck, a six-figure salary that’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this nightmare. If it weren’t for that, I would’ve been long gone by now.
“What’s wrong? Are you already giving up on me? Am I not worth saving anymore?” he asks, his tone laced with amusement, his eyes glinting with cruel delight.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He wants to get under my skin, to twist my words and turn them into a weapon.
And it’s working.
I tried, I really did. I told him there was hope, that he didn’t have to waste his life here. I reminded him that he’s only 27 years old, that it’s not too late to turn things around.
I meant every word.
I told him he deserved to be saved too, that no one is beyond redemption.
But instead of meeting me halfway, he dismissed me. He listened to my entire motivational speech with a cold, unreadable expression, and when I finished, he simply cut me off.
“Leave,” he said, as if my words hadn’t meant anything at all.
Now, as he throws my own effort back in my face, I can feel my frustration building, bubbling just beneath the surface.
His smug expression makes it worse. He knows how much his words sting, and he’s reveling in it.
He got under my skin.
My stupid, freaking senses betrayed me, making me look weak in front of him.
Remember when I was so cocky about the way I look? How I told myself that my pretty face and nice curves would make my clients vulnerable to me, give me the upper hand?
Well, he flipped the script.
He did that to me.
He’s gorgeous, infuriatingly so, and his sick comments, his inappropriate questions, they did something I didn’t want to admit.
They made me feel wanted.
And I haven’t felt wanted in so long.
I threw myself into my career from the moment I started college. It became my everything, my identity, my shield. And in doing so, I shut out everything else.
No boyfriends. No distractions.
I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years. Three. Freaking. Years.
Sure, I’ve tried to date. I’ve been on the apps, gone out to dinner, entertained the small talk. But do I really want to waste my time with guys who only want to get laid? Who treat me like a prize to win, or worse, a future baby-making machine?
No, thank you.
I had bigger priorities.
I needed to focus. I needed to prove to my parents that I could be independent, that I didn’t need to marry some rich creep they hand-picked for me.
I needed to prove to myself that I was more than the perfect daughter they spent years grooming me to be.
But now, sitting in front of him, it feels like all of that resolve is crumbling. He’s getting to me, breaking through the walls I’ve spent years building, and I hate it.
But Lorenzo, he’s different.
He plays with my mind, gets inside my head, making me think of him far too much.
He makes me forget why I’m even here, why I took this job in the first place. And somehow, through his sick, twisted games, he makes me feel wanted in a way I haven’t felt in years.
But I won’t do it. Not today.
I’m too tired, too drained to let him win.
I know nothing can happen between us. I don’t even think he wants anything real. He just wants to prove to himself that he can have me, because the first time we met, I told him he wasn’t my type.
His cold blue eyes lock onto mine, searching for something.
But I don’t give him the satisfaction.
Without saying another word, I turn and walk toward the door.
“What are you doing?” His voice stops me in my tracks, sharp and surprised.
I glance over my shoulder, catching the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“I’m leaving,” I say flatly, keeping my face blank.
I grip the handle and try to push the door open, but it doesn’t budge.
It’s locked.
What the hell?
I jiggle it again, harder this time, but it doesn’t move. Panic prickles at the edges of my mind.
“Going anywhere, princess?”
His voice sends a chill down my spine.
When I turn, he’s already moving. Slowly, deliberately. His tall frame, looms over the room as he rises from his chair.
The handcuffs on his wrists do little to diminish his presence. If anything, they make him look more dangerous.
More terrifying.
More... devastatingly gorgeous.
I can’t move.
I just stand there, frozen, staring at him as he approaches.
He stops right in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against my chin, trailing down to my neck, and then to my shoulder.
Freaking move, Serena.
My body screams at me to stay, to let him take this as far as he wants. My mind, however, knows better.
Do I really want to let him fuck me here, in a room full of cameras, where everyone could enjoy a porn show later?
My body answers with a resounding yes, but my mind refuses to be that stupid.
I step back, breaking the contact, forcing distance between us.
“Why is the door locked?” I ask, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and something far more dangerous, desire.
This cannot be happening. I hate being this weak. No man has ever made me feel, or act, so utterly stupid.
“I needed some privacy to enjoy you,” he says, his voice low and hungry, his gaze roaming over me like a predator sizing up his prey.
“Screw you,” I snap without hesitation, my voice laced with defiance.
“Agreed,” he replies, his eyes darkening, a promise lingering in his tone.
Before I can react, he’s there, right there, standing so close I can feel his heat. Too close.
I instinctively step back, only to find myself blocked in by the hard line of his arms. The cold metal of his handcuffs brushes against me as he traps me effortlessly.
The sound of the door opening snaps me out of my daze.
What the hell?
Someone steps into the room.
Without a word, they unlock his handcuffs, the metal clinking softly as they fall away from his wrists.
“You have one hour before they notice the cameras aren’t working,” the man says, his tone disinterested as if this was just another day at work.
His cold grey eyes flick to me for a moment before he turns and locks the door again behind him, leaving me alone with Lorenzo.
I freeze.
The cameras aren’t working.
The cameras. Aren’t. Working.
Breathe, Serena. Breathe.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, my voice sharp with frustration as I try to suppress the panic rising in my chest. “And why the hell is the door locked?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, amusement flickering in those cold, unrelenting blue eyes.
“Sit down.” His voice slices through the air, cold, firm, absolute. It’s not a request; it’s a command, one that makes my spine lock and my breath stutter.
My eyes flicker to the floor. The handcuffs, open, discarded like they were never there. My pulse spikes. Now the restraints are useless metal at his feet, and he’s looking at me like I’m the one caught.
“I’m not going to freaking sit down!” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “Open the door and let me go. I’m not in the mood to play your sick games.”
His amusement only grows, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
And despite everything, the fear, the frustration, the absolute insanity of this situation, I can feel my heart pounding harder.
Because as much as I hate this sick man, I hate even more that I’m attracted to him.
But I can’t let him win.
I can’t let myself give in.
“You’ll be in the mood for many things, baby,” he says, his voice low and sinful, dripping with confidence. “You’ll beg me to fuck your beautiful pussy, you’ll scream my name, you’ll wish for me to claim you as mine, and you’ll fucking love it.”
Claim you as mine. Make you scream my name.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my hand flies up and slaps him.
The sound echoes in the room, sharp and shocking, and my heart slams against my ribs.
Oh my Gosh.
His head tilts slightly to the side, his jaw tightening for a moment, but then…
He smirks.
That arrogant, dangerous smirk that makes my stomach twist into knots.
What the hell was he thinking, saying those things to me?
What the hell was I thinking, reacting this way?
Because no matter how furious I am, no matter how much I hate his filthy words, I can’t deny how my body betrays me.
My nipples harden under the fabric of my dress, and a heat pools between my thighs, spreading, consuming me.
I hate him for this.
I hate him for making me feel this way, for making me want him.
Because the truth is, I do.
I want to be his. I want him to claim me, to make me scream his name until there’s nothing left of me but him.
But we could never have a relationship.
Not in this lifetime.