Page 53 of Shattered Engagement

“Holy fuck, Isadora,” he groans, tension radiating through him as he holds off his own release. “Watching you come like that... so goddamn hot.”

Words seem trivial. We communicate in other ways—his calloused fingers in my hair, tugging my head back to expose my throat for his teeth; my nails leaving half-moon crescents in his chest as his cock drives deep again and again; the crackling air between us as emotion flows from skin to skin.

When he finally tenses, spilling himself deep inside me with a strangled groan, his name spills past my lips. And for a moment, the world is completely silent, all fear and dread gone in a sea of shared ecstasy.

For a moment, we’re simply two people finding each other in an endless and lonesome universe.

He presses a kiss to my collarbone, a sweet gesture at odds with the way his fingers still grip my hips like a conquering Viking claiming his war prize.

“We’re making a mess of your seats,” I murmur, coming down from the high.

“Worth it.” He presses another kiss to my neck, sending aftershocks skittering across my skin.

I tilt his head up, my lips seeking his. There are so many things left unsaid, and I need him to know, as clearly as I possibly can. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, seeking entrance I gladly give. We consume each other, passion flowing freely, desire burning away doubt.

“No regrets?” he asks, my lips caressing the shape of the question.

“None.”

Tomorrow will bring whatever comes, but tonight I’m his, and he is mine. No more hiding, no more secrets, no more risks.

A sharp rap on the window shatters the moment. We break apart, instinctively reaching for weapons—his gun, my concealed blade—before recognizing Carmela’s face peering through the glass.

My family’s maid, loyal since childhood, looks terrified. Stefano gives me a moment to climb off him, then rolls down the window, his body partially shielding mine.

“Miss Isadora,” she gasps, voice trembling. “You need to come quickly. Someone broke into my room—they found your diary.”

The blood drains from my face. My diary. The one I gave Carmela for safekeeping. The small leather-bound book where I’ve recorded everything—my meeting with Stefano at the club, discovering his true identity, our plans for tomorrow. Every secret, every risk, written in my own hand.

“Who?” Stefano demands, already shifting into tactical mode. “Who found it?”

Carmela shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “I don’t know, sir. I went to turn down the bed and saw the lock broken, my things scattered. The diary was gone.”

My world tilts sickeningly. If that diary reaches Luca or Giancarlo before tomorrow—

“We need to go,” Stefano says, reaching for the ignition. “Now. No more waiting.”

“Wait,” I grab his wrist, mind racing. “If we run now, they’ll know it was us. My father, Giancarlo—they’ll put everything together.”

“They already know,” he counters, urgency in every line of his body. “The diary—”

“We don’t know who found it,” I interrupt. “It could be a maid, a security guard—someone who doesn’t understand what they have.”

Carmela shifts nervously. “They’re looking for you inside, Miss. Your father sent men to find you after you didn’t return from the powder room.”

Time is running out. I look at Stefano, at the man who has offered me escape, who has shown me a glimpse of what freedom might taste like. Then I think of our plan—of justice for his mother, of breaking free from Luca’s cruel grasp through truth rather than flight.

“If we run,” I say slowly, “we’re running forever. But if we stay—if we follow through with tomorrow—we might actually have a chance at a real life afterward. One where we’re not always looking over our shoulders.”

I see the conflict in his eyes, the battle between the vengeance that has driven him for decades and the desperate need to protect me now.

“I need to go back,” I decide, squeezing his hand. “I need to find that diary before anyone else does. If I disappear now, they’ll lock down everything. But if I return, play my part for a few more hours—”

“It’s too dangerous,” he growls, but I can see he knows I’m right.

“More dangerous than running?” I counter. “Than having both families hunting us for the rest of our lives?”

Stefano’s jaw tightens, but he nods once, a sharp movement that conveys both agreement and frustration. “If anything seems wrong—anything at all—you get out. Use the signal we discussed. I’ll be watching.”

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