Page 89 of Brutal Revenge

As I sit in the middle of Matteo’s bed, surrounded by glossy magazines that taunt me with every perfectly lit photograph, I can’t shake the feeling that I tore open something fragile and foolish inside myself, something I should have kept locked away. It’s safer when I keep my emotions unacknowledged and buried beneath the weight of everything else I’m supposed to focus on.

I didn’t come to Sicily for Matteo.

If I weren’t feeling so stupid, I’d tell Matteo that I overheard Nico and Elio and that I’m basing every accusation on their conversation. I don’t because I hope he will tell me I’m wrong, that they’re wrong, that the idea that our connection is an act is ridiculous. He would never make me orgasm solely to help me get back with Antonio. He did it because he was desperate to learn what I taste like.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

He simply gazes at me with a stunned, hollow look, torn between wanting to reach out and running away.

The silence becomes so thick and suffocating that I drown in it.

Because I’m hurt—and angry, so very angry that I read everythingso wrong—I lash out. I’ve been played, and up until ten minutes ago, I didn’t realize I act like a cow when hurt.

“I hope the paparazzi caught our best performance to date at the gym this morning.”

Matteo’s jaw tightens, and silent warnings flicker in his eyes, but I keep going because the ache in my chest is spreading like a bruise I’ll never be able to hide.

“Even if Antonio was late for his daily soy latte, he’d still have a front-row seat to our show.”

Matteo’s eyes flash with a quick, dangerous spark. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. Saying Antonio’s name out loud was a mistake, but I’ve crossed a dozen invisible lines I didn’t know existed until now.

It isn’t like Matteo’s threat will hold weight. He sees this as nothing more than a game, a strategy he orchestrated with the same ease he uses to breathe.

The reminder steels me enough to keep pushing.

“We might need to pump the brakes a little, though.” I flip through another magazine, even though the pages are a blur. “Gifting me an orgasm to make Antonio believe our coupling is legit was a good ploy, but it’s not my intention to seem easy. No one wants to marry a harlot.”

Again, his jaw clenches.

And once again, I pretend not to notice.

“Imagine if people mistake my face as meaning we’re more.” My forced laugh scrapes my throat raw. “That would be terrible.”

The silence that follows is full of things neither of us is brave enough to say.

Then Matteo finally speaks.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat, “you’re right. We should slow things down.”

My heart stutters, and my lungs don’t answer a single prompt from my brain.

He agrees. Just like that. No hesitation. No confusion. No fight.

“Better to slow things down now before we getinto a wreck.”

Is that what he thinks this is?

A collision waiting to happen?

He turns toward the door, and when he grips the doorknob for dear life, for a split second, I think he’s going to say something that proves I didn’t imagine everything between us.

He doesn’t.

He just leaves, the door slamming so hard it warps the hinges.

Its boom echoes through the room like a gunshot. Then it’s quiet.

For several long seconds, I stare at the door he walked through. Shock settles in my bones as the discomfort in my chest spreads until my diagnosis is terminal.