Page 10 of Forbidden

“Yeah, well, I’m not you,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean.

His brow lifts. “Fair enough.”

I turn away, but his voice stops me. “Need a ride home?”

I freeze, bottle halfway to my lips. “I’m good.”

“You’re not,” he says, flat. “Come on.”

I should say no. I’m drunk, not stupid. But my mouth betrays me. “Okay.”

He nods once and steps aside, gesturing to the gate. I clutch the bottle tighter, my knuckles white, and stumble past him. His arm brushes mine—hard muscle under that suit—and my skin ignites a slow, shameful burn.

I hate how much I want him closer, how every step toward his car feels like a plea for him to wreck me.

We’re in his black SUV now, the leather seats icy against my bare legs. He drives, one hand on the wheel, the other slack on his thigh. I stare out the window, the streetlights flashing past and my head a drunken blur. His scent—leather, smoke, him—floods the car, choking me. I shift, cross my legs, and my dress hikes up. His eyes snap to it, then jerk back to the road. My gut clenches.

“Thanks,” I mumble, cracking the silence.

“For what?”

“Driving me. Gianna’s too busy playing bride.”

He grunts and laughs a little. “She’s a damn nuisance. Always will be.”

I snort. “Tell me about it. Good thing she’s Gerald’s problem now.”

The quiet between us stretches thin, prickly, and taut. I steal a glance and his jaw clenches as though he notices it too. He’s close enough to brush against and fuck, I want to. I’ve wanted him forever, ever since I’d sneak looks over at Sophia’s, too young to name the ache I felt. Now I’m twenty, and it’s grown into something monstrous, those unholy fantasies fueled by his pictures and his name slipping out in the dark.

He’s right here, oblivious, and it’s twisted. Wrong. LIfe’s a cruel fucker, dangling the forbidden in front of me just to watch me writhe.

“You’re too quiet. Little Penelope doesn’t talk much anymore?” he teases, his eyes still fixed on the road.

His referring to me as ‘Little’ hits a nerve, but I shove it down.

“Thinking,” I mumble.

“About what?”

I hesitate, then let it out. “That night. Sophia. How I didn’t pick up when she called.”

He stiffens, knuckles whitening on the wheel. “Leave it alone, Penelope. It’s done.”

“Done?” My voice cracks, bitter. “I see her bleeding out every damn night. Her eyes—I didn’t—”

“Stop.” He cuts me off. “You were a kid. It’s in the fucking past.”

“Is it?” I turn, glaring at him. “You’re not haunted? You don’t wake up choking on it?”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer. Silence slams back, heavier now, like a fist. I slump against the seat. He doesn’t get it or maybe he does, and that’s worse. Sophia’s death ripped us both open and left us bleeding in different ways. I ran to Italy; he turned into this—whatever the hell he is now.

Finally, he speaks, voice quieter. “Italy. What was that like?”

I scoff out a jagged laugh. “Pasta, wine, and a shit-ton of regret. Worked in a dive, hands stinking of garlic. Thought I’d outrun her ghost. Nope, I just traded nightmares for olive oil.”

He grins. “Sounds like you lived it up.”

“Oh, yeah,” I deadpan. “Real glamorous. You should’ve seen me crying into my spaghetti the first few months I got there.”

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