Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
“Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.”
― Mae West
Jade
One red. One gold. One black. One green.
Of course, the bastard had thought of everything.
The dresses weren’t just hanging there—they were waiting . Perfectly arranged, paired with sparkly shoes and enough jewelry to make a princess weep.
It was the kind of setup little girls dream of—the fairytale fantasy brought to life.
But standing there, all I could think about was how satisfying it would be to rip them all to shreds.
I shrugged off my coat, tossing it onto a chair before flopping onto the bed.
Grace’s call earlier should’ve been the red flag. “Mr. Lazzio has an emergency,” she’d said.
Emergency, my ass. It was a setup.
He’d been pulling me back into his orbit, like a planet trapped in his relentless gravity, no matter how hard I tried to escape.
Didn’t the man get it?
I’d been avoiding him for a reason—a list of reasons, actually—but mostly because if I let him drag me any closer, I’d lose the one thing I’d been clawing to hold onto: control.
And now, this? His family thinking we’re together?
He was delusional. Certifiably insane.
I’d dealt with egotistical maniacs before, but Angelo Lazzio didn’t just take the cake—he smashed it in your face, and expected you to thank him for it.
I stared at the ceiling, fists gripping the comforter like it was the only thing keeping me tethered. Enough was enough.
After this getaway, my plan would finally fall into place.
By the end of the weekend, Lazzio Entertainment Inc. would be nothing but ash.
And Angelo Lazzio? He’d be lying in a pool of his own blood.
It was the only way.
The only way to break free of his claws, and finally claim the revenge I’d been craving for years.
But for now, I had to play the part.
I had to pick a dress.
Not just any dress—one that screamed, I don’t want to be here, but you’ll damn well worship at my feet for gracing you with my presence.
The red one. Obviously.
An Elie Saab gown dripping in gold sparkles, its bustier mermaid silhouette tailored to perfection. Black velvet gloves to match.
And the pièce de résistance? The black Jimmy Choo heels I’d almost bought before Luciana had forced me to have coffee with her.
Must be fate for them to have appeared here.
I swept my long black hair into a sleek updo, a few loose tendrils framing my face. For makeup, I went with a soft smoky eye—light, airy, but edged with just enough menace to whisper danger. Nude lips, polished to a degree that practically oozed condescension, completed the look.
The result?
A walking masterpiece. The kind that turned heads and stopped hearts.
Yes, I was ready.
Ready to make Angelo Lazzio choke on his arrogance and regret every single second of forcing me into this night.
“Jade, Dio mio , every time I see you, you somehow look better than the last,” Monica Lazzio drawled as she leaned against the bar, her Roberto Cavalli suit tailored within an inch of perfection.
A dry martini dangled from her fingers like it was part of her outfit .
“Well, what can I say, Monica? I guess it’s a gift,” I winked, reaching for the champagne flute waiting for me.
Next to her, Francesca Harper gave me a once-over, her red Chanel dress hugging her curves like it had been made for no one else. She didn’t need to say anything; the little tilt of her head and the ghost of a smile were enough to declare she approved—begrudgingly, of course.
Lazzio stood by the massive window, framed perfectly by the darkness of the beach outside. He looked ridiculously good, as usual—black shirt, black suit, and a red handkerchief casually tucked into his blazer.
And then it hit me—we matched. Without even trying.
His eyes slid over me, like he was savoring every inch of me in that dress. The way his eyes darkened, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour me or just keep me in his head for later, made something in my chest tighten.
Stronzo.
“I must say, I’m delighted Angelo brought you tonight. It’s the first time he’s ever brought a woman to a real family dinner—let alone Christmas.” Monica swirled her martini, before she took a slow sip. “I think my son is falling for you, Jade.”
Before I could muster up a response that was equal parts polite and insulting, a butler appeared out of nowhere.
“Dinner is served in the dining room,” he announced.
I didn’t need a second invitation.
With a tight smile at Monica, I followed the butler, Lazzio falling into step beside me. His hand grazed the small of my back—just a whisper of contact, but enough to light my nerves on fire.
I ignored him, and instead let my eyes sweep the house, because, God help me, this deserved attention.
If the Gregs’ house in Aspen had been majestic, the Lazzios’ estate in the Hamptons was straight-up divine intervention.
Every corner of the place sparkled like it had been prepped for a Vogue Christmas special.
Christmas trees? Everywhere.
Not just random ones thrown together either—each was its own little masterpiece, dripping in gold ornaments, and dusted with fake snow perfectly.
Then there was the dining room.
Oh, the dining room.
It was a fever dream of decadence.
A marble table so long it could probably double as a runway stretched down the center, laden with enough food to feed a small country. Roasted meats gleamed under the soft glow of a massive gold crystal chandelier, its cascading crystals dripping with opulence.
Crystal bowls held colorful side dishes arranged so artistically it almost felt rude to touch them.
I guess that was the highlight of the night—definitely better than the dinner I was supposed to have alone in my apartment.
You know, the usual: a sad chicken sandwich and some chips.
The chairs were jet black, high backed, and so dramatic they could have been thrones.
I hesitated for just a second in the doorway, taking it all in. “Wow.”
Lazzio moved in closer, and I swore the room got even warmer.
He took my hand, his lips brushing over the glove. “I had the same reaction when you walked in, Miss Whitenhouse—my heart nearly stopped,” he murmured. “You’re the real Christmas miracle tonight, amore. ”
My cheeks heated. “Stop it, Angelo.”
“I can’t help it. You look too tempting tonight—impossible not to stare.”
His hand didn’t just touch mine—it lingered , as if he were savoring the feel of it.
My pulse skipped, but I fought the urge to yank it away.
Instead, with a sigh, I let him guide me to the table.
He then reached for a chair, pulling it out like a gentleman.
“Sit.”
I sank into the chair, despite every nerve in my body screaming at me to slap that smug grin off his face.
He sat next to me, too close, his leg brushing mine.
I forced my focus away.
The butlers moved around the table, refilling glasses, replacing plates, and ensuring the Lazzios were well catered to.
I grabbed another glass of champagne. The bubbles hit my tongue, and I let the glass linger in my hand, swirling it absently.
I studied the people around me—every laugh, every side-eye, every whispered comment. The familiar faces, and the ones I hadn’t seen before. The ones who would laugh with me, and the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat if it suited them.
But no Luciana or Lorenzo.
Their absence was loud, even if no one else seemed to acknowledge it.
She was really gone, then.
Interesting. Never expected Angelo Lazzio to play the hero.
From time to time, I felt it—his eyes on me.
His knee brushed mine under the table, almost on purpose, sending a little spark up my leg. His hand would brush mine when I reached for something—salt, champagne, whatever the hell it was.
And each time, that spark shot through me again, hotter than before.
Then suddenly, Carlos Lazzio rose from his seat, tapping his glass.
“Every Christmas, we share what we’re most grateful for. And this year, as always, it will forever be mia famiglia. ”
Glasses lifted, the chorus was loud and proud: “ La famiglia! ”
My throat tightened, and I could feel that stupid burn behind my eyes.
Yes, family .
Family was everything.
Or at least, that’s what people said when they actually had one.
I tucked my hands under the table, pressing my nails into my palm until it stung, trying to ground myself. The ache in my chest wasn’t playing fair, squeezing harder with every laugh, every smile, every toast around me.
Two deep breaths in. Two out.
I could do this.
Just blend in, Jade.
But, of course, the universe hated me.
Because when I dared to glance up, Angelo was watching me.
Great. Of all the people to notice, it had to have been him.
His hand found mine under the table, before I could yank it away, his fingers wrapped around mine.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallowed hard, staring at him, trying to force the words out, but they stuck in my throat.
No way was I breaking down here. Not in front of him.
But then my chest clenched again, my vision started to swim, and— no, no, no, not now, Jade, come on!
He let go and stood up. “I invite you all to the ballroom. The Nutcracker awaits, along with some early gifts for the children.”
The room erupted into movement, chairs scraping, glasses clinking, everyone laughing and talking as they made their way out.
No one had noticed me, and I should’ve been relieved.
But he had.
Of course, he had.
“Jade—”
I didn’t wait.
The chair screeched against the floor as I bolted for the window, hands fumbling with the latch. My fingers shook, desperate, and when it finally gave, the night air hit me like a slap—icy, unforgiving.
I climbed through without thinking, drawn to the crash of the waves like a moth to flames, knowing they’d burn, but unable to stop.
The sand swallowed my heels the moment I landed, clinging and dragging me down with every step. Anger flared, and I yanked them off, hurling them somewhere behind me into the shadows.
Barefoot, I ran.
The beach shifted underfoot, treacherous and endless, until freezing water swallowed my feet and climbed to my ankles. It cut through me, as relentless as knives, but I didn’t stop. Not until my legs gave out, sending me to my knees, the shoreline’s cold rush soaking through my dress and skin alike.
My chest clenched, air slipping through in shallow, useless gulps. I clawed at it, but each breath was a betrayal, jagged and fleeting. The world blurred—edges smudged with shadow, darker with each blink.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight it.
My body was turning on me, every muscle locking up as fear roared louder than the ocean.
I dug my nails into my thighs, anything to ground myself, but it wasn’t enough. Darkness crept closer, heavy and unrelenting, until the thought struck like lightning—this was it. This was how it ended.
Waves kissed my legs, cold and cruel, as if mocking my struggle. My lungs burned, ribs caving under invisible hands, and all I could do was surrender to the pull of the void.
And then—footsteps.
Heavy. Steady. Cutting through the sand like they belonged to someone who wouldn’t stop until they had reached me.
Before the void could take me, Angelo’s voice cut through the storm—a beacon, raw and unrelenting, pulling me from the abyss.
“Jade!”
He didn’t waste time with empty words or pointless reassurances.
Instead, he crouched, his knees sinking into the wet sand beside me.
The silence between us was deafening, broken only by the crash of the waves and the shallow rasp of my breath.
I felt his hand hover near my arm, unsure, hesitant—like he wasn’t certain if his touch would calm me or not.
“Breathe, Jade. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You can do this.”
I shook my head violently, the freezing water clawing at my legs.
“I c-can’t?—”
“Focus on me. Just me.”
I tried.
God, I tried. But the air caught in my chest, refusing to obey.
My ribs locked, caging me in, each failed breath a punishment.
And then, I crumbled.
The cold water took me as I fell forward, the waves biting, the sand pulling. The icy grip numbed my body, but it couldn’t dull the terror. Salt water kissed my lips, streaked my face with ruin, makeup mingling with tears, hair plastered to my skin.
I still couldn’t breathe.
This couldn’t be the end.
Not like this.
Not now. Please, not now.
“Jade, stop!”
The cold only made it worse, the tremors rattling through me as I sank deeper into the panic.
He cursed sharply. Then he moved.
His hands were on me, rough, pulling me up, dragging me out of the water.
His heat was searing, melting the ice in my veins as his arms wrapped around me.
I clung to him, my nails digging into his skin, my face pressed against his neck.
“You’re freezing,” he growled, carrying me. “Fuck! What the hell were you thinking?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. My chest still burned, my breaths coming in stuttering gasps, but his warmth steadied something deep inside me.
He didn’t stop. Not until we were inside—past the echoing crash of the door, up the elevator, and into the bathroom in his room.
The sound of rushing water filled the space as he cranked the shower, steam billowing into the room. He held me upright, his arm locked around my waist like I might disappear.
My gloves went first, his fingers brushing mine as he peeled them away.
Then came the zipper on my dress.
The fabric fell, and so did the rest—bra, underwear, every barrier stripped until I stood bare under his gaze.
But it wasn’t lust in his eyes.
It wasn’t pity either.
It was something worse. Something that made my throat tighten with guilt.
It was worry.
Angelo Lazzio was worried about me.
He guided me into the shower, the warm water cascading over me in waves, rinsing away the salt, the sand, the night.
He didn’t look at me like I was broken.
He didn’t say a word about the wreckage I’d become.
His clothes were still on, soaked through as he stepped in with me.
I opened my mouth to protest, but his voice cut through the steam.
“Shh. Let me take care of you, amore .”
And I let him.
Not because I couldn’t fight, but because for the first time, I didn’t want to.
His hands moved over me—not rough, not rushed, just careful.
Each touch was gentle, washing away more than the ocean’s remnants.
It wasn’t control, or power, or even guilt.
It was care—jagged and unguarded, a blade wrapped in silk.
And it made me feel something I wanted to bury.
Angelo Lazzio.
My boss. My tormentor. My savior.
The man who had stolen my sister’s life, yet had saved mine three times over.
How could this man be my poison and cure in the same breath?