Chapter 17
Lorenzo
I glance at my phone when no one’s looking, hoping for a message that isn’t there.
Nothing from Elizabeth. Not a fucking word.
God, this night is dragging.
The chandeliers above glitter like interrogation lights, the air thick with expensive perfume and false laughter. Every conversation blurs into the same meaningless hum of power and vanity. I didn’t want to come, but Fran had thrown a fit.
So here I am. Dressed in a tux that fits too well, wearing a mask I don’t have the energy to maintain.
Fran, of course, is in her element. She’s been making her rounds for the past hour air-kissing friends, laughing too loud, and making sure every camera in the room catches the glint of the engagement ring on her finger.
The ring I gave her.
The one I haven’t looked at once tonight without feeling something ugly crawl up my throat.
She finally glides back to our table, cheeks flushed from champagne and attention.
“Darling,” she coos, her hand settling on my arm. “You should say hello to the mayor.”
I arch a brow. “Why would I do that?”
She blinks, then laughs lightly, as if I’ve told a charming joke. “You’re so silly. No wonder you need me. I’ll make all the connections we need.”
Her words scrape against my patience. We. She says it like she’s already part of my legacy.
I make the mistake of glancing at my phone again, and she catches it immediately.
“You’ve been preoccupied all night,” she says, swirling her champagne. “Is it work?”
Her tone is casual, but her gaze is sharp. Fran never asks a question she doesn’t already think she knows the answer to.
“Yes,” I lie smoothly. “Just business. Things that would only bore you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Do you mind if I make a call?” I ask, already half-standing.
“Only if you promise to take me for a spin around the room after,” she says, her fingers brushing my jaw. “People are starting to think you don’t like me.”
I catch her hand and lift it to my lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Of course.”
Then I leave before she can ask another question.
As I move through the crowded ballroom, people step aside. The air feels lighter the farther I get from her perfume.
I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and down it in one swallow. The bubbles burn like acid.
Out in the corridor, the noise of the gala dulls to a distant hum. I pull out my phone again.
Still nothing.
I open her message thread anyway, my thumb hovering over the last thing she sent.
Elizabeth
Merry Christmas.
That was hours ago.
I should delete it. I should go back inside, to Fran, to the life that keeps the world in balance.
But instead, I find myself typing before I can stop.
Are you awake?
I stare at the screen, waiting after I hit send. No response. My reflection in the black screen looks like a man I barely recognize. Someone who’s losing his grip.
When a waiter passes by, I hand him the empty glass and straighten my jacket. I’ll give it five minutes. Then I’ll call. And if she doesn’t answer I already know I’ll drive back to the penthouse myself.
In the ballroom, I find Fran near the champagne tower, surrounded by admirers and cameras. When she sees me approaching, she lights up with the kind of smile that’s all teeth and calculation.
“Darling,” she says, looping her arm through mine as if we’re in sync, “finally.”
I lead her to the dance floor, because she’s right about one thing. We need to be seen together. People notice the small things: the distance between bodies, the tilt of a smile, the chemistry that sells a lie. And I’ve worked too hard to fail now.
My hand finds her waist out of habit.
She leans close, murmuring through her polished smile, “You’ve been glowering all evening. The photographers are starting to think we’ve fought.”
“They wouldn’t be wrong,” I say quietly, guiding her into a slow turn. “You knew I didn’t want you to wear the ring tonight.”
She stiffens, but her smile doesn’t falter. “You’ll thank me later. Our engagement announcement has already hit three outlets.”
“Has it,” I murmur.
“Mmm. And I might’ve let slip that the wedding will take place this spring.”
I stop mid-step. “You what?”
Fran keeps her expression smooth, though her nails dig into my arm like claws. “Don’t make a scene. Smile.”
I do, but it’s the kind of smile that would make a sane man take a step back.
She tilts her head, “Have you had any leads in Kansas City?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well,” she says sweetly, “with our engagement becoming public, it will look odd if the press finds out that girl is still staying with you.”
That girl.
I tighten my grip around her waist just enough to make her gasp softly. “Don’t worry about Miss Miller,” I say evenly. “I’ll take care of her.”
Fran’s eyes flash. “Don’t avoid the question,” she says through her perfect smile. To anyone watching, we look like lovers whispering sweet nothings. “You’ve been distracted for weeks, Lorenzo. I’m not blind.”
“I never said you were.”
“I understand that you’ve been grieving,” she says, her voice dropping lower, “but grief doesn’t last forever. We have obligations. We can’t stop planning our wedding every time your ward bursts into tears.”
“Ward?” I echo, the word curdling in my chest.
“She’s a child you’ve taken pity on,” Fran says coolly. “Nothing more. And that means it’s time to send her back where she belongs.”
“I’ve told you,” I say, keeping my tone quiet enough to hide the ice beneath it, “you can plan whatever you like for the wedding.”
“And I’ve told you,” she hisses softly, “that I want your input.”
“Then perhaps you should marry someone more interested in playing dress-up.”
Her jaw locks, but she doesn’t miss a beat, still smiling for the watching eyes.
“My father assured me you were willing to cooperate,” she says. “He said you understood what this alliance means.”
At the mention of her father, I sigh and look away toward the glittering crowd. Her father has been trying to buy a seat at my table for years. Unfortunately, his connections help build my empire, which means I need him happy.
Fran’s voice sharpens. “Don’t test me, Lorenzo. You may be used to getting your way, but you’re not the only one with power here.”
I turn my head back to her, a faint smile cutting across my lips. “You’d do well to remember whose name you’ll be taking.”
The waltz ends, the crowd applauds, and I step back, bowing slightly before leaving her on the dance floor. Her smile flickers for the first time.
I walk off without another word, needing distance before I say something that would make headlines for all the wrong reasons.
And as I head toward the nearest exit, my phone vibrates again in my pocket.
Elizabeth
My lips part as I zoom in, just to be sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. I am.
The message comes through a heartbeat later.
You have your fun. I’ll have mine.
For a moment, I just stand there staring at the screen, champagne and noise forgotten. Then something slow and dangerous uncoils inside me.
My jaw tightens.
Whatever I was about to feel dies instantly, burned away by something darker.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and head straight for the door. My stride is controlled, because I know if I let myself move any faster, I’ll draw blood before I make it home.
Outside, the cold night air bites through the heat in my veins, but it doesn’t cool me. Not even close. My men straighten as I approach, falling into step without question.
“Take me home,” I say. My tone leaves no room for misunderstanding.
The ride feels endless. Every block we pass only winds the tension tighter. I replay her words and the defiance in those four sentences.
She wants to provoke me.
She wants a reaction.
She’ll get one.
By the time we reach the penthouse, my blood is on fire.
Cesaro is already waiting at the entrance, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. He flicks it away as I step out.
“I want everyone out,” I tell him. “Guards, staff—no one comes up until I say otherwise.”
He nods once. “Yes, sir.”
The elevator ride feels long. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks nothing like the man who left this morning.
She wants to play games?
Fine.
I can play, too.
The elevator dings, and I step into the silent penthouse, the city’s glow bleeding through the windows like firelight.
And somewhere inside, I know she’s waiting whether she realizes it or not.
The elevator doors slide open and the quiet hits me first.
No music. No footsteps. Only the low hum of the city outside. I take the stairs two at a time to her room. When I try the knob to her door I find it unlocked. She’s sitting crossed-legged, going through a package. Something she bought today when she was trying to teach me a lesson.
She startles when she sees me, but she doesn’t stand.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. The sound is soft, final.
“Is this what you do when you’re bored?” I ask, holding up my phone so she can see the message thread glowing on the screen. “Send me pictures like that?”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “You said I should feel at home.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” she fires back. “Well, I guess that’s too bad for you because I masturbate at my home.”
For a second, everything inside me goes still.
Dead still.
The kind of stillness that happens right before something violent breaks loose.
Heat spikes low in my gut, sharp and possessive. I take a slow step toward her, deliberate as a predator closing on prey. Her pulse jumps at her throat betraying her, but she doesn’t move away.
Good.
My voice drops, rougher than I intend. “You say that like you want me to picture it.”
Her breath hitches.
I move another inch, enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating into the thin space between us. My eyes drag down her body and back up, slow, hungry, unashamed.