Page 96 of I'm sorry, Princess
But how could I not react?
The way he looked in that black suit, like it was designed specifically for him. The fabric hugging his broad shoulders, his powerful frame. The way his dark curls fell slightly messy across his forehead, his fresh cut making himlook even sharper. And his scent. That intoxicating mix of mint and smoke, wrapped in something uniquely him.
Then there was his face.
Those cold, piercing blue eyes, always scanning, always calculating. The short beard that made him look even more devastatingly dangerous. His sharp jawline, his sculpted features, like he was carved by some cruel god meant to ruin me. And his lips.
The lips that were on me not very long ago.
I should hate him. I should. But whatever I feel for him isn’t just hate. And maybe it never was.
The way he held me tonight, like I belonged to him. Like the rest of the world didn’t matter. He didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care about the brunette who was clearly seething in the corner. Didn’t care about the whispers, the camera flashes.
All that mattered was us.
And for a moment, I let myself believe it.
The way he danced with me, his body pressed against mine, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my back, his voice low in my ear, it all felt too natural. Like we were an actual couple. Like he wasn’t the worst possible person for me.
But, of course, my father had to ruin it.
The moment his voice cut through the air, Lorenzo stiffened slightly, his grip tightening around my waist before letting me go.
And just like that, the moment was over.
I followed my father, but every step I took away from Lorenzo felt wrong.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I follow my father down the dimly lit hallway.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, his strides confident, controlled, cold.
He stops in front of a door and pushes it open, stepping inside. He doesn’t even glance back at me, just waits, expecting me to follow.
And when I do, my stomach sinks.
My mother is already there.
Of course she is.
I feel the tension coil in my chest, squeezing around my ribs. The air in the room feels suffocating, thick with something unspoken. The last time one of my parents was unpleased with my actions, I ended up with a bruise on my cheek.
I take a step forward, cautiously. “Is everything okay?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
My father’s eyes are unreadable, his expression carved from stone. “I’m not sure what your mother told you about my arrangement with Archibald,” he begins, his voice eerily calm, “but to make it clear, you are going to marry Ian.”
My breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
What the hell is happening?
“To that point,” he continues, voice still devoid of emotion, “would you like to explain what the hell just happened out there?”
I blink at him, confused. “I don’t understand. What happened?”
He narrows his eyes at me, his jaw tightening. “Taking those pictures with John and Ian was a statement. A clear message to the world that they will be our family soon. That they should expect an alliance between the Attorney General and the Chief of the FBI.”
His words feel suffocating, like iron chains wrapping around my throat.
“Please enlighten me, Serena,” he says, voice sharp now. “Why do you think we did those photos? Why do youthink we asked them to join us? So you could spend the night dancing with Moretti and ignoring your future husband?”
