Page 53 of Wicked Prince

"So, you going MIA had nothing to do with what happened at dinner?" I ask.

"Believe it or not, it didn't," he answers. "I had some unexpected business to attend to in Jersey."

"Jersey?" I blink. I shake my head to clear it of the curiosity I have no business feeling. "Never mind. I don't even want to know."

He just chuckles. "So, I take it you had enough time to calm down that you're willing to talk about things."

He knows exactly how to get to the very end of my fuse. I glower at him. "Go fuck yourself, Lorenzo."

"I'd rather fuck you," he says, propping his forearm against the wall above my head. "Still plenty of time between now and the next class, and I'm more than happy to skip if you are."

"You've made that clear," I mutter. "Thanks, but no thanks. I meant what I said at the restaurant. Nothing else is going to happen between us."

"Is that why you were worried?" he challenges. "Because that night meant nothing to you?"

I look away so I won't betray what I'm feeling. "Of course it meant something to me," I concede. "It's all the more reason it can't happen again. Not the least of all because you're dating my sister."

"I told you, Kayleigh doesn't mean anything to me," he says, exasperation ebbing into his tone.

I just stare at him in disbelief for a second. "Is that supposed to make it better? How can you be that cold?"

"In case you haven't noticed, that's the way this world works," he counters without a hint of shame or guilt. "People use each other all the time, and she's no exception. If my last name weren't Rossi, she'd ditch me without a second thought if someone else caught her eye."

"So, that's what makes it okay for you to fuck with people and use them? Because you tell yourself they would do the same to you?" I ask, genuinely trying to understand.

I'll never understand men like Lorenzo or my father. How they can see people like they’re just pawns on a chessboard. How they can compartmentalize everything.

No matter how different they are on the surface, the two of them are more alike than I want to admit. I don't know what that says about me, and I'd rather not think too hard about it.

"I don't need to tell myself that. I know that's how it is," he says with a shrug. "It's been that way all my life.”

He glances up the hall before turning back to me and lowering his voice.

“Listen… you weren't born into this. You don't know what it's like to know that everything in your life—every relationship and every opportunity—is just a product of your pedigree. Because people want something from you just because of your last name, not because of who you are or what you do. You learn pretty fucking early on that loyalty is just an old-fashioned concept men like our fathers use to brand their crimes and excuse everything they want to do, as if it's all for some higher purpose."

For a moment, I can only stare at him. It hurts to hear what he's saying, not because he's wrong or because I disagree, but because it's the first time I have actually allowed myself to acknowledge something that should have been obvious from the very beginning.

The connection I felt to Lorenzo was always one way. It was just another carefully calculated aspect of his charm and personality that he uses to get whatever he wants. He's not a deviation from this world, he's a product of it. He's not capable of feeling what I feel, not even in part, and I can't even blame him for that.

I'm the one who should know better.

I'm the one who has no excuse.

More than anything, more than the hurt or the resentment I need to carry with me so desperately, I just feel… sad.

Sad for him.

Sad for what might have been.

"If that's the case, then I don't know what you want with me," I say, folding my arms to put some obstacle between us. I always feel like cornered prey when Lorenzo is around, and this time is no exception.

He frowns, like the answer should be obvious. "You really don't get it. You 're different, Amelia," he says, cupping my cheek in his hand. This time, I don't pull away, even though I should. "You don't care about any of it. And when I'm with you, it feels like it doesn't even matter. Like I can just be myself, not Lorenzo Rossi, whoever the fuck that's even supposed to be. You're not like them. You’re different."

"You’re right," I murmur, forcing myself to take a step back as disappointment dims his gaze. "Which is why I can't do this."

"Stop," he growls, snatching my wrist before I can walk away from him again. "Stop running away from this."

"From what?" I shoot back, forcing myself to hold his gaze, which seems to take him by surprise as much as it does me.

---