16. Azra
Azra
The ballroom is a cathedral of wealth. Gold-leafed molding curls across the ceiling, and violins play a melody too delicate for the array of people gathered here.
All forms of power gravitate toward tables glittering with crystal vases and perfectly cut white-stemmed roses.
Politicians, doctors, and businessmen and women, wearing diamonds and couture outfits, smile with teeth that have bitten through more than just appetizers.
I’ve spent the last hour pretending I’m not counting every breath. You’d have no idea that I perceive the scrutiny of eyes that once dismissed me as Antonio’s accessory.
The last time I attended an event like this, the attendees didn’t see me as Antonio’s equal. They saw me as his shadow. His afterthought.
Tonight feels different because Matteo walks beside me, not several feet in front.
When we reach the seating area, I instinctively drift toward the back. That’s where I belong, tucked away like an antique vase. Pretty to look at, but nothing more than an expensive ornament.
Just as I spot my name on a table near the bathrooms, Matteo tugs me forward. His lengthy strides only stop when we reach a table at the front of the ballroom. It’s reserved for people who matter.
Before I can protest, he snatches up the name card on the plate next to his and flicks it onto the floor with an arrogance that sends a ripple of shock through the nearby guests. A lump lodges in my throat when he pulls out the chair clearly belonging to another guest.
“Sit,” he says, voice low and unbothered.
My heart stutters, then races, then stutters again.
No one has ever done this for me. Not even my father, who’s obligated to love me.
Even when I wore Antonio’s ring, he pushed me into the background like a secret he didn’t want to explain.
So why does Matteo want me at his side? His face is without a flicker of hesitation, as if he doesn’t care who sees him valuing me as high as the people who run his country.
“Sit, micina,” Matteo says again, drawing my eyes to him.
I lower myself onto the chair, and the room slightly whirls as the world rearranges itself around his unexpected act of chivalry. The way he treats me as an equal is dangerous. It makes me feel like I deserve to be here.
It also triggers thoughts I shouldn’t have. Like what it would be like to have someone like him to help me with my ruse. Someone who doesn’t just play the role but elevates it. Someone who makes me feel protected, valued, and seen, even when I’m at my worst.
Vengeance is an ugly disease, so I’m certain I’ve never been more hideous.
I’m foolish for thinking this way. Those multiple orgasms in the walk-in closet must have rewired my brain. They made me soft and floaty, but also honest. Every minute I spend with Matteo makes the recklessness his attention stirs harder to ignore.
Especially when Antonio arrives.
He takes the seat across from us, shifting the mood from playful to tense. Matteo’s posture also changes. He’s not tense or aggressive, more focused on his target, like a recently sharpened blade being drawn from its holder.
His gaze fixes on Antonio with a coldness that jumps my pulse. Antonio pretends not to notice. He’s a terrible actor. Everyone notices how the vein in his neck leaps up several decibels and how he can’t quite catch his breath.
Matteo doesn’t look away or flinch when several influential members of Antonio’s family arrive. He wants everyone in this room to know he despises the men seated across from him. Especially me.
As waitstaff dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts move around the room, serving guests their beverages of choice, Matteo’s fingers brush my bare shoulder.
His touch is both flighty and firm, sending goose bumps racing across my skin.
Each stroke feels intentional. Claiming.
Perhaps even protective. He’s reminding Antonio exactly who I’m with tonight, and I melt more with every brief embrace.
His attentiveness is so authentic that, unlike at previous events, I don’t strategize every word or calculate every move. Since I’m not bracing for judgment, I actually enjoy myself.
While sipping sparkling water, I ponder why I ever believed I needed to face this war alone.
Halfway through the entrees being served, the man exiled from our table approaches. His hands shake as he gathers his placement card from the ground and enters the lion’s den without support.
“Uh… I’m allergic to fish,” he murmurs, his words smooth despite the shudder of the loose skin under his neck. “And that’s all that’s being served at the back tables.”
I glance down at my plate, my stomach grumbling when I take in a perfectly cooked steak swimming in garlic-and-herb-infused juices.
Disappointment stabs me in the chest when I gather up the plate to hand it to the man, fully expecting Matteo to dismiss him with an unvoiced warning not to forget whom he’s dealing with.
Instead, Matteo continues to shock me. “Join us.” He lowers his eyes to me. “Azra is in your seat.”
My head snaps up to the man before I stammer out an apology. “S-sorry.”
Standing, I scan the room for the table I’m supposed to be at, desperate to hide my inflamed face in the shadows where I’m always placed.
Multiple orgasms clearly make even the shrewdest women stupid.
I’ve never felt dafter.
I don’t get a step away before Matteo’s fingers encircle my wrist. He pulls me down until I land in his lap with a thud. A soft gasp escapes me as intimate regions of our bodies collide. Matteo isn’t hard, but try as I may, I can’t ignore the girth and length barely concealed by tailored trousers.
My gasp shifts to a moan when Matteo flattens his hand low on my stomach with a calm certainty that our seating situation is the most natural thing in the world. His hold screams that I belong here, in his lap. He reserved his thighs solely for my backside.
Unconcerned by the extra body at a table designed to seat twenty, the waiter arrives with Matteo’s meal and sets it down.
As his cock twitches beneath me, Matteo nods toward the plate. “Eat,” he tells me, voice as smooth as sweetened coffee. “I’m full from that decadent dessert I ate before dinner.”
His comment is innocent enough for anyone not in the walk-in closet with us, but the effect is immediate. The skin at my nape inflames, and Antonio pushes back from the table with a tight jaw and stormy eyes.
Years of plotting scream at me to watch him go, to analyze every step and flicker of emotion cracking through his polished exterior, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Matteo.
His arm is around me, his presence a protective shield. He’s making me feel something dangerously close to safe, and I refuse to give it up for anything.
Even revenge years in the making.