Page 47 of I'm sorry, Princess
Hottest Bestfriend:Breakfast tomorrow?
I’m supposed to work tomorrow. I’m supposed to walk into that hellhole and sit across from the man who made me beg, then walked away like I was some kind of plaything.
Yeah, no. Tomorrow I’m going to be very, very sick. Probably contagious. Possibly dying.
ME:See you tomorrow at 10am xx
She sends me a heart emoji, and for the first time today, I smile.
It’s almost 2 p.m. Where did the time go?
I’m not in the mood to face my father. And since Ian said he’d report the boring session to him, I decide to treat myself to something soft. A spa evening. Something to erase today’s insanity from my skin and maybe, if I’m lucky, my brain.
Before I turn off my phone, I shoot off a quick message to my supervisor, Blakely:
ME:Hi, unfortunately I’m not feeling well. I’ll need to reschedule tomorrow’s appointments.
Coward? Probably. But even cowards need survival strategies.
And I need at least 48 hours to figure out how to face Lorenzo Moretti without turning into a puddle of shame and hormones.
Chapter Thirteen
Lorenzo
She cancelled all our appointments last week. I don’t have time for this. I need to go back. I’ve been rotting in this cage for weeks now.
Nine days since I made her beg for something she swore she didn’t want. Nine days since she stormed out, her pride bruised and her thighs trembling. She hasn’t touched me since, not physically, not even a glance that lasted too long, but I still feel her under my skin.
The cold showers don’t work anymore.
At night, I sleep on a mattress that might as well be ice, thinking it’ll numb me, dull this ache she branded into me. It doesn't. I still wake up hard, still imagine her voice cracking as she whispered yes, please. It’s infuriating. She's become a distraction I didn’t ask for, and I’ve tried to push her away. God knows I’ve tried.
But she keeps coming back. Professional. Cold. Pretending like her mouth didn’t drop open when I pressed myself against her. Pretending like she didn’t drip down my hand while counting my name.
She walks in every time in those skirts that hug her curves like sin. Glasses perched on her nose like she’s some kind of authority, like she has control. I always greet her the same way, with a smirk, a compliment, something vulgar whispered just low enough to make her flinch. And every single time, I catch it: the heat in her eyes, the way her thighs shift under the table.
She hates herself for wanting me.
Almost as much as I hate that I fucking love it.
Our sessions have become a game. She brings her notepad and her tight-ass professionalism, asks questions she hopes I’ll answer. Half of them are irrelevant, shallow. And when she gets bold, when she dares ask about who I work for, about deals and names, I can see her shaking behind that rehearsed detachment. Like she doesn’t know she’s playing in a league that would eat her alive.
She even had the audacity to bring up Ian. Ian will protect you if you cooperate, she said.
I almost laughed.
Imagine thinking Ian Archibald could make me a deal. Imagine thinking he holds a single card at this table. Her voice said strategy, but her eyes said desperation. The moment his name left her mouth, I cut her off and told her to get the fuck out. I couldn’t even look at her. Because rage doesn’t sit well with me. It burns, and when it burns, I destroy.
And I’ve got enough to handle without her becoming another liability.
Kirill is losing control of the Russians’ external channels, and Andres says Lev’s behavior is becomingerratic. I already suspected it. Lev was always two bad decisions away from becoming a problem, and now I’m the only one who can keep him in check. He respects me, barely, but that fear won’t last if I sit behind these bars any longer.
My time here is up. The games, the cameras, the farce of containment, it ends now.
And as for Serena... she's trying so hard to pretend this never happened. But her act is cracked. And I always find the cracks.
She thinks she’s safe because she’s put up walls.
