Page 141 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Did I pass it? Maybe I ran right by the door! Panicking, I decide to head right.
I keep going, passing room after room with closed doors blocked by stanchions with velvet ropes, obviously not restrooms. Just as I’m about to give up and turn around, I spy a set of double doors open at the end of the hallway, spilling out light.
When I run through them, I’m greeted by a wall of portable hanging curtains that set designers and interior decorators use to block off large areas of unsightly space. This particular curtain is crimson, so I know I’m in the right place.
It’s weird that the curtains are closed, but whatever. I have to pee.
I part the curtains where I find a break and walk into chaos.
An entire small city has been set up in a space the size of a hotel ballroom. Row after row of gowns hanging from portable racks line the walls. Directors’ chairs opposite lighted vanity tables are filled with models in short red robes being prepped for makeup and hair. Designers scurry around a long line of models waiting near a curtained door on the opposite side of the room, fussing over last-minute adjustments. Rock music plays, photographers snap photos, girls take selfies, and assistants shout over one another for pins or scissors or shoes.
I’m backstage.
As if he’s a homing beacon, Matteo draws my gaze like a magnet. He stands at the head of the row of models about to go out onto the catwalk through the curtained door, inspecting each gown, accessory, and lock of hair to ensure it’s perfect.
My heart throbs to life. I’m seized by the urge to run to him, throw my arms around his shoulders, bury my nose in his neck, and breathe in his delicious scent. I want to touch him so badly, to feel his strong arms pull me close, it’s like wildfire in my blood.
Then he moves, the girl at the front of the line of models comes into view, and the fire turns to ice.
The model wears a one-shouldered gown of vermillion silk. The skirt is voluminous. The bodice glitters with sequins. The cut, style, and design are exquisite, and as familiar to me as my own face.
Because the dress is mine.
I recoil as if I’ve been punched and suck in a hard breath, clapping a hand over my mouth. I stare in wide-eyed horror at the girl, my mind blank, a trapped scream trying to claw its way out of my throat.
He said he wouldn’t. He promised. No, no, this can’t be happening, this is some kind of mistake . . .
My gaze skips to another model, then another, and I realize with a cold sickness that it isn’t a mistake.
Every one of the designs from my sketch pad is on a model about to walk through the door. He used them all.
Shaking, I take a step back. My legs feel like lead. My head swims. Memories fly at me hard and fast, all the things Matteo said to me. All the beautiful lies.
An animal moan of agony passes my lips.
How did I allow myself to get here, humiliated and used, duped by my feelings, again? I swore I wouldn’t, I vowed I’d never again be such a blind fool, yet here I am, standing in a gown I made by hand for the occasion, watching a man I adore burn my soul to the ground.
I stumble back, colliding with the wall, gasping for breath because I can’t get air, I can’t breathe, and if I don’t get out of this room this second, I’m going to die.
I spin on my heel and run from the room.
I run wildly down the echoing corridors of the palace, blind to its opulence, pain like poison eating through my veins.
How could he? How could he? How could he?
There’s an explanation. He loves you. You know he loves you. Give him a chance to explain.
Are you nuts? Explain what, that he planned this all along? That he couldn’t convince you to sell him Papa’s business, so he made you fall in love with him instead? That he’s the most coldhearted bastard who ever lived?
Just give him a chance!
At the head of the sweeping staircase, I jolt to a stop. I’m breathing hard, shaking badly, and almost certain the contents of my stomach are about to make a large unsightly stain on the red carpet, but I fight the urge to fly down the stairs for a moment, long enough to hear the voice in my head urging me to stop. Urging me to take my seat in the front row and let it play out. To let all the dominoes he stacked up fall.
There has to be a reason he invited me here tonight. In my heart of hearts, I don’t believe he’d be so cruel as to give me a front-row seat to his betrayal.
Whatever his reason for doing this, I want to hear it.
I won’t run away. I won’t punch him in the nose and break all the china in the house. Though there’s nothing more I’d like to do than avoid the truth, the reality is that I’m in love with him in a way I never was with Brad.
