Page 90 of I'm sorry, Princess
I take a sip of my drink, letting the burn chase away the suffocating thoughts. But then, I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
And I know exactly who it is.
My eyes flick to the far end of the room, where he stands. Lorenzo Moretti.
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his presence effortlessly commanding. His thick, dark hair is slightly tousled, but in the way that makes it look intentional. The strong cut of his jaw, the way the dim lighting catches the edge of his sharp cheekbones, he looks untouchable. Dangerous. His ocean-blue eyes are locked on me, cold and unreadable, yet burning with something I can’t quite decipher.
But he’s not alone.
I don’t even know her name, but I don’t need to.
She’s the kind of woman you just know. The kind who doesn’t need an introduction because her presence alone is enough to turn heads, enough to make you feel like you don’t belong in the same room as her.
And right now, she’s standing next to Lorenzo.
She’s stunning, undeniably, effortlessly stunning. Dark, sleek hair falling just past her shoulders, perfectly straight, like she stepped out of a high-end salon an hour ago. Sharp cheekbones, striking features, and lips painted the boldest shade of red. A dangerous red. The kind of red that makes men lean in closer, makes them lose themselves in the promise of it.
Her dress is short. Too short. Hugging her body in all the right places, leaving just enough to the imagination while showing off impossibly long, toned legs. She wears it with ease, confidence oozing from her posture, from the way she stands beside him as if she’s done it a thousand times before.
As if she belongs there.
And Lorenzo?
He’s standing next to her like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
The jealousy that coils in my chest is instant, ugly, and completely out of my control. It sinks its claws into me before I can rationalize it, before I can remind myself that I have no right to feel this way. That he’s not mine. That he was never mine.
And yet, standing here, gripping my drink like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart, I feel like I’ve already lost a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Because how do I compete with her?
She looks like she fits into his world, the dark, ruthless, unapologetic world he dominates. She’s not the kind ofwoman who hesitates, who stumbles over her words or second-guesses herself. She’s the kind who owns the room. The kind who walks into a place like this and knows every man is watching her.
And then there’s me.
Soft. Blonde. Safe. Dressed in something beautiful, yes, but still delicate in comparison. My nude lipstick, my loose curls, my dress that hints at seduction but doesn’t demand it.
I feel small next to her. I feel pathetic for even caring.
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the cold liquid burn down my throat, but it does nothing to soothe the ache spreading through my chest.
I don’t know her name, but I don’t need to.
All I need to know is that she’s standing next to him.
And yet, his gaze never leaves mine.
For a moment, the entire room fades. The music, the voices, the clinking of glasses, it all disappears. It’s just us, staring across the room, tethered by something unspoken. My grip tightens around my glass, my breath hitching, but I refuse to look away first.
Because even with her next to him, even with the space and the people between us, Lorenzo Moretti is looking at me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Lorenzo
Why the fuck is she wearing that?
I swear, I can feel my blood fucking boiling just looking at her. That dress, my dress, because fuck if I let anyone else admire it, is hugging every goddamn curve, making her look like some forbidden fantasy. Like something no man deserves to touch.
