“I would do it again,” he declares, and there's no doubt in his voice, no hesitation. It's a promise and a threat rolled into one. A declaration of intent that thrills and terrifies me.
We fall into a quiet stillness, the moment sacred in its intimacy. There is nothing glamorous about tonight, no champagne, elegant dresses, or candlelit seduction. Just raw honesty. And somehow, in the midst of it all, I feel closer to him than I ever have. The barriers between us have crumbled, leaving only truth and possibility.
“You should rest,” he murmurs softly, though his fingers remain intertwined with mine.
“Will you stay?” The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerable and needy in a way that should embarrass me but doesn't.
Uncertainty flashes across his face, and I can tell he’s measuring his response. Then he nods, his decision made. “I'll stay.”
And with that simple promise, he leans forward and kisses me. The contact is gentle at first. His lips are soft against mine despite everything we've endured. But then something ignites between us, and the kiss deepens, becoming desperate and consuming. It suddenly feels like the world is shifting beneath me.
He lifts me carefully from the bed, wincing slightly from his wound, and carries me to the adjoining bathroom. The marble tub is already filled with warm water, steam rising from the surface like incense. Rose petals float on top, their fragrance mixing with bath oils to create an atmosphere of indulgence.
He kisses me deeply and passionately. It's a healing, a recognition of what we mean to each other, and an acknowledgment that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
18
ELENA
The first time I see her, I don't know who she is. All I see is a pair of impossibly long legs stepping out of a gleaming black car, the low hum of the engine still vibrating through the drive as she stands there, poised and breathtaking. Her stilettos are designer, Louboutin, and her cream coat is tailored to perfection, hugging her elegantly slim hourglass figure as if it were crafted specifically for her body. When she pulls her sunglasses off, I'm met with the kind of bone structure you only ever see on the cover of luxury magazines. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and perfectly sculpted brows framing deep espresso-brown eyes with impossibly thick, dark lashes.
Her honey-blonde hair catches the Miami sunlight, cascading in soft waves down her back with a glossy sheen that suggests expensive salons and meticulous care. Even from this distance, I can see the warm, olive glow of her flawless skin, sun-kissed and radiant in a way that screams Mediterranean heritage and meticulous care.
That's when the name clicks into place. Bianca Rossi. Of course, it's her.
She breezes past the guards like she owns the place, every movement sleek and poised, embodying that effortless Italian elegance I've only seen in fashion magazines. Her statement gold jewelry gleams under the light. Layered necklaces draw attention to her graceful neck, and bold earrings frame her face perfectly. A soft murmur of recognition greets her from one of Renat's men, and I notice her full lips curving into a practiced smile painted in what looks like deep crimson. My stomach knots as I watch her disappear through the front doors of the estate without so much as a glance in my direction. I'm standing in one of the drawing rooms that overlook the entrance, and the sting of being invisible to her shouldn't matter, but it does. It matters far more than I want to admit.
I sink onto the edge of the window seat, my body still aching from everything that happened in the Keys. Renat saved me. Bathed me. Held me as I shook from exhaustion and fear. And now, just two days later, his ex walks through the front gates as though summoned by instinct. As though she sensed the smallest crack in his armor and is here to exploit it. Every inch of her exudes sophistication and control, from her tailored designer blazer to the way she carries herself as if she has never doubted her place in any room she enters.
I don't know what I expect to hear, but I can't stop myself from moving closer to the corridor that leads to Renat's study. I press my back against the cool marble wall, half-hidden behind a stone pillar, as their voices carry toward me.
Bianca's tone is all silk and smoke, carrying that subtle accent that makes even simple words sound seductive. “I heard about what happened. You should have called me.”
“There was no reason to,” Renat replies, his voice low and even.
“No reason? You were injured, Renat. I still care about you.” Her voice drops to that intimate register, suggesting years of shared history and knowing exactly which buttons to push.
There's a moment of silence. I imagine her stepping closer, laying a perfectly manicured hand on his arm, tilting her chin up in that practiced way women like her do. The kind of gesture that's designed to remind him of everything they once shared.
“You're not him anymore,” she murmurs, and I can almost see her intense gaze searching his face, “but you're still mine. You always will be.”
The possessiveness in her voice makes my skin crawl. This isn't the plea of a heartbroken woman. It's the demand of someone who's never been told no, who views people as acquisitions to be reclaimed.
His answer is quiet but resolute. “Bianca, I don't have feelings for you.”
The words cleave through the stillness, swift and precise. I shouldn't feel anything, but my fingers dig into the wall, needing something to anchor me as heat coils low in my stomach.
“So that's it? You throw everything away for her?” There's a sharp edge to her cultured voice now, the silk replaced by steel. “Some little nobody journalist who doesn't understand your world?”
The dismissal in her tone ignites a firestorm in my chest. She says it like I'm disposable, temporary, a phase Renat will grow out of once he remembers what real sophistication looks like.
Renat doesn't reply right away. When he does, his voice is tight. “You don't get to ask me that.”
“You're in love with her.” The words come out flat, disbelieving, as if the very concept offends her refined sensibilities.
Again, that silence. Not a denial. Not a single word to break the tension now stretching taut between them. And that silence screams louder than anything he could have spoken.
Bianca lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time, I hear something crack in her perfectly composed facade. “Unbelievable.”
