Page 137 of Stalking Ginevra

Last night, I rushed back to the hotel, leaving behind the suitcase. I couldn’t sleep, wondering if Brisket would reappear.

I skipped breakfast, but now I can barely stomach lunch.

“Don’t you like it?” Carla’s voice is bright, oblivious to the storm churning in my gut. She dips a piece of bread into the fondue and pops it into her mouth. “You’ve hardly touched your plate.”

I manage a smile, but it’s tight and brittle with the weight of guilt pressing down on my chest. How can anything not taste like ash when all I can think of is last night? Things went too far with Bob Brisket. I can’t believe my body gave into him so easily.

“Not hungry,” I mutter, turning my gaze away from the platter of dippers.

Cara frowns. “You’ve been like this since breakfast. Are you okay?”

How the hell do I explain I just cheated on my husband? I part my lips to respond, but the door creaks open, and Benito steps into the room.

The words wither on my tongue.

His presence invades the room like a gust of winter. In his black suit and matching shirt, he might as well be the grim reaper. He sweeps his cold gaze across the table, his features unreadable. My heart slams against my ribs, every muscle stiffening under the weight of his stare.

“Leave us,” he says, his voice flat.

Cara hesitates, her eyes darting between Benito and me. Her concern lingers for a second, but she’s in no position to question her boss. Without a word, she hurries to the exit.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with Benito, and my stomach twists into knots. Silence stretches tighter than a noose, and the air becomes too thick to breathe.

My gaze drops to what he’s holding—a manilla envelope—and my heart drops.

Did someone send him photos of me with Brisket?

Benito crosses the room, stopping at my table, still clutching the envelope. My pulse quickens. Every instinct in my body yells at me to ask what it contains, but I bite my tongue. I want to scream, to explain, to say something before it’s too late. But my throat dries, the words caught in the web of guilt that tangles around my heart.

He knows. He has to know. And yet… he hasn’t said a word.

I peer up at him through my lashes, not daring to raise my head. His face is impassive, but his eyes are sharp, watching me with close scrutiny. Curling my hands into fists on my lap, I dig my fingers into my palms to keep from trembling.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Benito speaks.

“How was dinner last night?”

My chest tightens. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back.

“Ginevra?” he asks.

“I...” My throat spasms. “I asked the waiter to pack it up.”

“To eat in your room?”

His voice is calm, but the weight of his question makes my blood run cold. He knows. Knows I didn’t return to the hotel. Knows I disobeyed his orders. But does he know about Brisket?

The envelope lands on the dining table with a gentle thud that may as well be the strike of a gong. Panic claws at my throat, desperate to escape, but I choke it back. My mind races, scrambling for words that might cushion the truth.

“I went home,” I blurt. “To pick up some clothes. And to share the Chateaubriand with Mom. Then the lights went out and my stalker appeared from nowhere.”

Benito doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes remain locked on the side of my face, waiting for my confession.

“He abducted me from the kitchen and made me,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t have a choice.”

The silence stretches again, thick and heavy, pressing down on my lungs, urging me to spill the truth. When I don’t elaborate, Benito says, “The stalker forced himself on you?”

“Yes.” I shake my head. “Kind of. He seduced me, made me weak. I… I didn’t know how to say no.”

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