Chapter Forty-two
Serena
HOTTEST BITCHES ALIVE
Kylie: Fuck Lorenzo! He doesn’t deserve you.
Kylie: Actually, don’t fuck him. It’s wrong. He’s trash.
Clara: Leave her alone, Kylie.
Sienna: I swear I’m going to kill him.
Me: I’m fine, really. I already forgot about him.
Lie.
The truth? My chest still aches, like there’s a fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing. I’ve cried so much I don’t even think I have tears left, but somehow, the pain is still there, raw and sharp. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He’s moved on.
Kylie: Don’t mind her, she’s still in denial.
Kylie: Why did you two break up anyway?
Sienna: Because he’s a dickhead.
Clara: I support this statement.
Me: I’m fine, really. I need to get to work. Speak to you later xx
I haven’t told them the truth. Not really.
I haven’t told them what actually happened, what he said, what I begged.
But I think Clara figured it out that night, when she heard me pleading with him to listen, when she saw me break.
And Sienna… she never asked why I woke up in the hospital after the panic attack.
She just sat next to me, eyes swollen from crying herself. Clara must’ve told her.
Since then, I haven’t done much living. I’ve barely existed. I curl up in bed, force myself into work, and in between, I torture myself by scrolling through old pictures of us. Him smiling at me. Me laughing at something he whispered. God, I miss him. I miss the dogs too.
My parents, of course, are ecstatic. They got exactly what they wanted.
And when I stopped answering their calls, ignoring their texts, blocking them, my father found a new way to punish me.
He froze my allowance. As if money could break me.
As if I care. I have my job, my own salary, my own apartment.
I can survive without his blood-stained money.
But surviving isn’t the same as living.
I drag myself into the bathroom, stare at my reflection. Hollow eyes. Black bags. Skin pale and fragile. I look like I’ve been grieving a death. And in a way, I have.
I cleanse my face, lather on my favorite serum, and massage moisturizer into my skin, trying to bring some life back to it.
Foundation next, to cover the bruised shadows under my eyes.
Mascara, just enough to make me look awake.
By the time I’m done, I look… presentable.
Alive on the outside, corpse on the inside.
I straighten my hair, put on my work clothes, and stare at the clock. 8:00 a.m. I should be at work by nine. Maybe I’ll stop for coffee.
My eyes fall on the car keys sitting on the table.
His gift. The sleek black Mercedes-AMG GLC 43.
I haven’t driven it since the breakup. Couldn’t.
The leather still smells like him, like his cologne, and the memories are suffocating.
I’ve been taking my old car instead, pretending the car doesn’t exist. But I’m tired of running.
Tired of being reminded of him in every corner of my life.
Fuck him.
I grab the keys. The engine roars to life, and I drive in silence. No music. No distractions. I don’t want to risk ruining my makeup with tears, but they threaten anyway, stinging behind my eyes. I force them back down. Survival mode. That’s what I’m in now. Cry. Eat. Sleep. Work. Repeat.
At my favorite coffee shop, I walk in and freeze. A familiar face sits by the window, hunched over a laptop. Charming smile, pressed shirt, smug aura. Kyle. The man my mother used to sleep with. My stomach twists.
I try to breeze past him, pretend I don’t notice, but of course, he does.
“Good morning to you, too,” he says smoothly, flashing his perfect teeth.
I give him a saccharine smile. “Pleased with the mother’s performance and thought you’d try the daughter too?”
His grin widens, unbothered. “Would you be interested?”
Ew. My skin crawls. Lorenzo ruined every man for me, but even if he hadn’t, Kyle is untouchable. Toxic. Off-limits. A man who’s been with my mother? No. Never.
“No,” I say flatly, my voice laced with disgust.
He lifts a brow. “I’ll try not to take offense to that.”
The barista slides my latte across the counter. “Already paid by Mr. Hunter.” She nods toward him.
Of course.
I shove my card across the counter anyway. “Take it as a tip.”
Kyle smirks, winks at me as he leaves. My stomach flips with irritation. It’s too early for this bullshit.
By the time I get to work, it’s 9:15. I bury myself in paperwork, emails, assessments, anything to distract myself. There are no appointments today, and honestly, I prefer it that way. The silence is safer.
And when the work slows, when the office grows quiet, I pull out my notebook. The one that’s been my salvation these past days. I’ve started writing again.
Funny, isn’t it? Out of all this pain, something good came. My novel. My characters. They bleed for me, they cry for me, but unlike me, they’ll get a happy ending. I’ll make sure of it. They deserve it.
I blink at the screen, my fingers cramping from typing. Two and a half hours. That’s how long I’ve been lost in my words, in a world that isn’t mine. My chest feels lighter, my pulse steadier. For a moment, I almost forget the wreckage of my own life.
Even if what I’ve been writing is three chapters of pure smut. Heat coils low in my stomach as I scroll through the words I’ve poured out, my characters moving like echoes of memories I can’t let go of. Him. Always him.
Damn Lorenzo.
He ruined me for anyone else, and it shows, because every male character I write is a shadow of him. Possessive. Obsessive. Brutal. And every scene, every filthy detail, it’s us. My thighs clench as I slam the laptop shut, cursing myself.
The clock reminds me it’s past lunch. My stomach is empty, but the thought of food turns me sick. Coffee will keep me alive until the end of the day.
The sound of the door opening makes me stiffen. No knock. No respect. Just the sharp click of designer heels against my office floor.
Blakely.
She walks in like she owns the place, like the air bends for her. Heavy makeup, lashes like spider legs, a dress so tight I wonder how she’s breathing. She smells like money and poison.
“Serena,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet with venom underneath.
“Hi, Blakely.” I force a polite tone, though disgust curls in my stomach. “What can I do for you?”
She doesn’t bother to answer. Just drops herself into the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs in a way that screams performance. “Oh darling, I don’t think you can help me with anything.”
Of course. The knife is coming.
I fold my hands on the desk, forcing myself still. “I’m not sure I understand.” My voice is even, but my patience is stretched thin, every muscle in me itching to snap.
Her eyes flick down to her phone, her attention already drifting as though I’m a waste of her time. “Well,” she begins with a fake sigh, “your… situation doesn’t look very good. Your relationship with one of our patients? It’s not exactly the image we want associated with the Bureau.”
I inhale through my nose, trying to keep my face blank.
“And then,” she continues, her lips curling, “there’s your poor progress. Don’t get me wrong, sweetie. Your face and body? Absolute art.” Her eyes rake over me with a hunger that makes my skin crawl. I feel dirty under her gaze. “But brains? Not so much.”
My nails dig into my palm under the desk.
Blakely leans forward, her perfume cloying, her smile a perfect weapon. “I think you need a break. A long one. Let this… scandal fade away. Take some time to sort yourself out. When you’re ready to be professional again, maybe then you’ll be worth the space you take up here.”
Her words drip like venom, slow and deliberate.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Am I being fired?”
She tilts her head, smile widening. “Suspended. Think of it as… a vacation. Until you figure out your priorities.”
It hits me like a slap. Not just losing Lorenzo, not just my parents’ betrayal, but now this. My job. My dignity. Everything chipped away until I’m standing on nothing.
My jaw clenches. “Like getting married to the Chief’s son?” The words come out sharp, spitting acid back at her.
She throws her head back and laughs, high and shrill, like the sound of glass shattering. “See?” she says when she regains breath. “Not as dumb as I thought.”
Her eyes gleam, her lipstick-red smile cruel. “Ian’s a good man. Just stop fighting it. Sign the contract. Marry him. Everyone will be happy.”
“How does this make you happy?” I ask her, my voice trembling more with disgust than fear.
Blakely tilts her head, pity dripping from her face like oil. “Darling,” she coos, “I’m on your father’s payroll. We’re all suffering because of your little tantrum. He’s furious, and he should be, especially after what that brute did to Ian.”
Her words twist my stomach. My fingers tighten on the pen in my hand, and my throat goes dry.
“What?” My voice cracks. “What do you mean?”
Blakely rises, smoothing down her painted-on dress. “Go ask him yourself.” Her smirk widens as she gestures toward the glass doors.
I turn my head, and my breath catches.
Through the haze of the office light, I see him. Ian. Sitting with the receptionist, half his face hidden in shadow. But even from this distance, I see it, his swollen eye, his bruised jaw, the stiffness in his movements. My chest caves in.
Blakely glides out of the room, her heels clicking against the floor, leaving poison in the air. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself, fighting the urge to hurl the lamp at her retreating figure. Fired. Stripped of my income. Humiliated. And now this?
I gather my things, clutching the box of my life in this office. But when I step into the hall and get a clear view of Ian, the box crashes to the floor.
“Serena,” he mutters, rushing forward to help.
I freeze, staring. His face, oh God. His eye is so swollen I can barely see it. His lips split, skin mottled with bruises, cuts across his cheek and hands. His fingers, every knuckle is battered, raw. I can hardly recognize him.
My vision blurs as tears well. Did Lorenzo do this?
“What happened to you?” My voice shakes. I’m scared of the answer, scared to know the truth.
Ian offers a sad smile, almost ashamed. “You know what happened,” he whispers.
The first tear spills down my cheek. My chest tightens. “Lorenzo… did this to you?” My voice breaks. “Why?”
Eyes are on us now, colleagues staring, whispers spreading like wildfire. Ian grabs my box from the floor, his shoulders slumped.
“Let’s talk somewhere else,” he murmurs, and takes my hand.
We walk in silence for five minutes, every step heavy. My eyes can’t stop tracing the damage across his face. His pain. His humiliation.
“Please tell me.” My voice is barely a whisper as I reach for his hand.
He exhales, tired. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse.”
“Ian,” I say firmly, “don’t lie to me.”
He finally meets my eyes. “He asked me to stop the wedding.” His words are quiet, defeated.
My tears fall freely now, hot on my cheeks. “What?” My voice trembles.
He nods. “Long story short? He kidnapped me to that Russian’s club. They have a torture basement there, Serena. A fucking basement. He wanted me to fight him, and…” He laughs bitterly. “Well, you can see who won.”
I feel sick.
Lorenzo. My Lorenzo. The man who held me like I was fragile glass. The man who whispered princess into my skin. The man who told me he loved me in the rain.
He lost control.
Ian goes on, his voice hollow. “He told me to call off the wedding. I told him there’s nothing I can do, that it’s not my choice.
And then he let me go.” He swallows hard, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see real fear in his eyes.
“Serena, he’s dangerous. Even if this wedding never happens, and I know he’ll try to stop it somehow, please.
Stay away from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of. ”
My heart splinters. I knew Lorenzo wasn’t clean. I knew he was tied to shadows, to Bratva and Cosa Nostra. But I never, never, imagined he would drag Ian into that world. Beat him until his face was unrecognizable.
Why? Why does he still think he has the right? He ended things. He left me shattered. He ignored me for two weeks. And now he does this?
My blood boils.
He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t get to decide who I marry, who I talk to, who I breathe for. If he chose to destroy us, then he lost that right.
I hug Ian briefly, my tears soaking his shirt. “I’ll fix this,” I whisper.
“Please don’t,” he says softly. “The damage is already done. Just do me a favor and stay away from him. He’s not the man you thought he was.”
But I already know that.
I pull back, wipe my cheeks, and walk away before I break down completely. Rage is pulsing through my veins, hot and consuming.
I get into my car and slam the door shut, my knuckles white around the steering wheel. My blood is boiling.
I drive straight to the Cursed.