Page 97 of I'm sorry, Princess
I freeze.
Lorenzo.
This is about Lorenzo.
I swallow hard, my body betraying me by trembling under my father’s cold stare. Say something, Serena. Say anything.
But I can’t.
My mother shifts in her chair, and when I turn to look at her, she’s smirking.
Like she knew this was coming. Like she’s been waiting for this moment, relishing it.
The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in on me.
The air is too thick, too hot.
I need to breathe.
“Answer me!” my father shouts, the force of his voice slamming into me like a physical blow.
I flinch.
I fucking flinch.
And my mother just smirks wider.
I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself. I can’t let them see me break. Not now. Not here.
I lift my chin and force my voice to remain calm, even though my entire body is shaking.
“First of all,” I begin, staring directly at my father, “being asked for a dance by the man who organized this very event and owns the freaking building should be a good thing, right? Diplomatic stuff and all that?” I arch a brow. “Or does that only apply when it suits you?”
“Language,” his expression remains unreadable, but I see the way his jaw clenches. I push forward.
“Secondly, why are you so obsessed with this marriage arrangement? You know my opinion about this. You know I respect you, father, but I will never, never, marry someone who isn’t my choice.”
My pulse is racing, and I feel my breathing quicken, but I don’t stop.
“And since we’re being so freaking honest tonight,” I add coldly, shifting my glare toward my mother, “she slapped me, by the way.”
That gets his attention.
His eyes snap to my mother, his expression darkening.
“What if I just went out there, in front of all those paparazzi, wiped off my makeup, and showed them the gift she gave me?” I tilt my head mockingly. “Wouldn’t that reflect perfectly on our family?”
Silence.
My mother’s smirk is gone.
I can see her entire body stiffen, her fingers trembling slightly as she grips the chair beside her. She knows she just lost control of the situation.
But my father, he doesn’t look at me. He looks at her.
His gaze sharpens, his expression shifting from unreadable to something almost… lethal.
“Thomas…” My mother’s voice comes out barely above a whisper, a desperate plea.
