Page 18 of Twisted Devotion

When he turns and sees me, his expression shifts to something between frustration and resignation. He rubs a hand down his face, clearly annoyed.

“You should have stayed where I told you, Aria,” Marco says, his tone sharp, like he’s scolding a misbehaving child. “I told you to wait.”

My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I fight the urge to snap back, my voice trembling with restrained fury. “What-what’s going on Marco?”

Marco exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign of his frayed patience. “Now that you’re here, he mutters, gesturing to the room, “just sit down and listen.”

I glance between Marco and Nicolas, who still hasn’t shifted his gaze. His silence is unnerving, and though I can’t meet his eyes again, I feel the weight of his scrutiny. It’s like he’s peeling back every layer, exposing thoughts I’ve worked so hard to bury. Judging me.

With no other choice, I move to the table and sit beside Marco. My heart races, each beat echoing in my ears. My hands tremble slightly, and though fear gnaws at my resolve, I steel myself, refusing to let them see it.

To my surprise, Marco rises and moves to the head of the table. The gesture feels calculated, but to me, it reeks of desperation, like he’s trying too hard to command the room. Nicolas and I exchange a brief glance, his expression unreadable, though I catch a flicker of amusement at Marco’s attempt to assert dominance.

Marco clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is deeper, more deliberate. “About the explosion…” His words send a shiver down my spine. My chest tightens, and the acrid scent of smoke fills my memory for a brief moment.

“Nicolas wasn’t responsible. We’ve confirmed that.”

The words hang heavily in the air. They don’t soothe me; instead, they ignite something raw and angry inside. My jaw tightens as I turn to Marco, my nails pressing into my palms again. From the corner of my eye, I catch Nicolas rolling his eyes, his expression one of mild irritation, as if the accusation is beneath him.

“How did you confirm that?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.

Marco flinches slightly, but his tone is clipped when he responds. “What?”

I straighten my back, forcing myself to appear calm despite the storm brewing inside. “How did you confirm he wasn’t the culprit?”

Marco blinks, his frown deepening as if my question is somehow offensive. “He told me,” he says with a shrug, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant. “He didn’t bomb your car and had nothing to do with my intercepted shipment. Therefore, Nicolas Paolo isn’t our enemy.”

Just like that?

I clench my fists under the table, nails biting into my palms to keep from saying what I really want to. Instead, I take a deep, steadying breath. Marco is clearly trying to make a point, though I can’t decide if it’s out of consideration for me or fear of the man sitting across from him.

“Okay?” I prod, my voice tighter than I intended.

Marco leans back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line before he continues. “And you know what they say,” he adds, his voice taking on a pointed edge. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing the urge to scream. My patience is wearing thin. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, but I force myself to stay still, to breathe.

Marco doesn’t notice—or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s too wrapped up in his theatrics. “In life,” he says, as though quoting some ancient wisdom, “sacrifices and compromises must be made for the greater-”

“Stop dancing around it and tell me what’s going on, Marco,” I snap. Marco’s glare silences me, and I instinctively retreat, swallowing the lump in my throat. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to soften my tone. “Please,” I say. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he clenches it hard enough to make the muscles twitch. He’s stalling, searching for the right words, and his reluctance sends a fresh wave of fear through me.

But Nicolas has no such qualms. He leans forward slightly, his movements deliberate, his presence overwhelming. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to meet them.

“To dumb it down for you, princess,” he says, his tone smooth and laced with mockery, “your family and I are building an alliance. And you,” he adds with an edge of finality, “are going to become my wife.”

The words hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, everything stops.

The air feels heavy, the world too still. I close my eyes, trying to block it all out, to pretend I’m somewhere else—anywhere else—but it doesn’t work.

I press my lips together and force myself to take a breath. Then another. And another. Each one trembles on its way out.

When I open my eyes, I’m still here, trapped in the same room with these monsters who seem to think they can play god with my life.

I close my eyes again, forcing another round of deep breaths into my lungs. Each one feels heavier than the last, but I cling to the rhythm, hoping it’ll steady the chaos inside me. When I finally open my eyes, nothing has changed. The room is the same, the suffocating tension hanging thick in the air.

It feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over me. The chill seeps into my bones and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

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