Page 95 of I'm sorry, Princess
I chuckle, completely unbothered. "What?"
She glares at me. "Could you please stop talking like that in public?"
The word please coming from her lips? Fuck. If she knew what it did to me, she’d never say it again.
I lean in slightly, my lips near her ear. "Should I save it for our private sessions then?"
Her glare sharpens, but I can see the way her breath catches. The way her body betrays her.
And then, of course, her father decides to ruin the fucking moment.
"Moretti."
Serena flinches slightly before turning to see the man standing behind her. Thomas Beaumont, jaw clenched,posture stiff, barely holding back the rage simmering under his skin. He must’ve been watching us for the last ten minutes, seething.
I smirk.
"Beaumont," I reply, voice cold, indifferent. "Are you enjoying the party?"
He looks like he wants to break my face. Instead, he schools his expression.
"Yes, thank you for the invitation," he lies through his teeth before shifting his sharp gaze to his daughter. "Serena, a word."
She hesitates, and I see it. Fear.
I don’t like that.
She pulls away from me slowly, hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to leave. I should let her go. I should fucking let her go.
But I don’t.
I tighten my grip, just enough to remind her that I’m still here. That I see her. That whatever the fuck is going on with her? I know.
Her father doesn’t.
He just thinks he’s winning.
She finally steps back, avoiding my gaze, and follows him. I watch her walk away, the sight making my blood boil. I want to follow her. I want to see what the fuck he’s about to say to her.
But instead, Ashley appears at my side, already talking. Something about me making her look bad. Something about how I embarrassed her. Something about her fucking feelings.
I ignore her completely and head straight to the bar.
Andres is already there. His drink untouched. His eyes not on me.
His eyes are on her.
And I don’t fucking like it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Serena
My head is spinning, my heart racing like it’s trying to escape my fucking chest.
Why does he have to look so good? Why is he the most attractive man I’ve ever met in my life?
I hope, God, I hope, he didn’t notice the jealousy burning in my eyes when I saw her next to him. The woman in the black dress, the one with legs for days and lips painted in the deepest red. The one who looked like she belonged at his side.
