No more games.
I'm not backing down.
These fuckers picked a fight with the wrong person.
13
SOPHIE
The laptop glows in front of me, a screen full of unreleased headlines I can’t bring myself to read. Congratulatory texts keep lighting up my phone.
I should feel proud. Triumphant.
But all I feel is exposed.
Though, it’s not the media frenzy or the merger I can’t stop thinking about. It’shim.
The way Alessio looked at me today. Like I was salvation wrapped in skin. Like I was the only person who could see through the noise and into something real.
“Because someone believed I could be more than a headline.”
His voice still echoes in my chest, low and reverent, like a vow. And it guts me. Because I believed it, too. Because some part of me, stupid, reckless, breakable, wants it to be true.
Wantshimto be true.
And that terrifies me.
The bathroom door swings open with a soft creak.
Alessio steps out, steam swirling behind him. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and a faint sheen of water glistens on his neck.
But what stops me cold is the shirt. He’s wearing one.
That detail alone short-circuits my brain.
After days of sweatpants and sinful glimpses of skin, the simple crewneck is... startling. Like he’s trying to follow at least one of my rules. And yet, somehow, it makes him even more irresistible.
The way the soft fabric hugs the lean lines of his torso, how it clings to the definition in his arms, the slight peak of his biceps beneath the sleeves…it’s a whole new kind of torment. Clean-cut, controlled, and devastatingly hot.
My pulse skitters, trying to outrun the truth.
And damn if the way the fabric clings to his torso, outlining every muscle, every lean line of his chest doesn’t make things worse. The sleeves stretch slightly around his biceps, defined and peaking in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Dammit. He shouldn’t look this good covered up.
Our eyes lock.
Something in my chest lurches.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he’s unsure of the space, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. He sets his phone on the counter. Then his gaze finds mine again.
He pauses, assessing the mood, as if trying not to push too hard.
But the weight of his gaze is still a touch. Hot, direct, lingering.
“I meant what I said.” His voice is low and hoarse from the heat. “You didn’t just save my image today. You reminded me who the hell I could be.”
I should deflect. I should pull my legs tighter and act unaffected.
