Page 50 of I'm sorry, Princess
A pause. "So, I can kill them."
Andres just shakes his head and walks out without another word. He knows I’m not bluffing.
Tuesday can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Serena
I’m in the room with him again.
This twisted little game of his has become routine, three times per week, he demands to see me under the guise of discussing his so-called “mental health issues.”
But Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti isn’t looking for help. He’s a freaking psychopath, and we both know it.
These sessions aren’t about progress or therapy, they’re about him. About his sick need to toy with me, to ask me uncomfortable, inappropriate questions that have absolutely nothing to do with his supposed “problems.”
It’s just me and him now, and the tension in the room is unbearable, pressing down on me like a weight I can’t shake.
“Hi, Lorenzo,” I say flatly, my tone betraying just how tired Iam of this charade.
This game, this constant back and forth, is starting to eat away at me. It makes me feel small, like I’m failing at the very thing I’ve been trained to do.
Is it me? Am I the problem?
“Hi, princess,” he replies, his voice dripping with a fake sweetness that only makes my irritation grow.
“Please,” he adds with a smug smile, leaning back in his chair, “don’t hide your excitement at seeing me.”
His tone is amused, mocking, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
So funny, asshole.
The only reason I’m still sitting here, enduring this, is the paycheck, a six-figure salary that’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this nightmare. If it weren’t for that, I would’ve been long gone by now.
“What’s wrong? Are you already giving up on me? Am I not worth saving anymore?” he asks, his tone laced with amusement, his eyes glinting with cruel delight.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He wants to get under my skin, to twist my words and turn them into a weapon.
And it’s working.
I tried, I really did. I told him there was hope, that he didn’t have to waste his life here. I reminded him that he’s only 27 years old, that it’s not too late to turn things around.
I meant every word.
I told him he deserved to be saved too, that no one is beyond redemption.
But instead of meeting me halfway, he dismissed me. He listened to my entire motivational speech with a cold, unreadable expression, and when I finished, he simply cut me off.
“Leave,” he said, as if my words hadn’t meant anything at all.
Now, as he throws my own effort back in my face, I can feel my frustration building, bubbling just beneath the surface.
His smug expression makes it worse. He knows how much his words sting, and he’s reveling in it.
He got under my skin.
My stupid, freaking senses betrayed me, making me look weak in front of him.
