Page 116 of Broken Crown

The thought of another man's hands on her—even in the most innocent of touches—sent a white-hot surge of possessive fury through my veins.

Her throat contracted as she swallowed, the movement drawing my eye to the vulnerable hollow where her heart beat frantically. "Mark?"

"Yes, Mark. The man who put his arm around you the day we met in Paris."

Her eyes narrowed, sapphire turning to midnight. "Don't you mean the day I met you in Paris? We both know it wasn't some Hollywood meet-cute. You arranged to meet me that day. What is the truth, Sebastian? Did you have some file on me? Some of your goons follow me around New York for months before we met to learn all you could about me?"

That was precisely what happened, not that I would admit it to her.

The photos, the surveillance, the carefully constructed profile of her habits, her desires, her weaknesses. A dossier compiled over months to ensure I could manipulate her with perfect precision.

My grasp tightened as I spun her faster, forcing her to cling to me.

Her fingers pressed into my shoulders, nails biting through the expensive fabric.

With every turn, her thighs brushed against mine, the whisper of fabric between us a maddening barrier I wanted to tear away.

She continued, her words striking true. "Did I even earn that internship in Paris, or was that all your doing, just to get me to Europe? Offering me something so good I'd defy my mother by accepting it."

As angry as I was, I couldn't allow her to think that she hadn't gotten at least that far on her own merit. "It was your talent. If it had been me, you would have been with an Italian designer I controlled. Not that asshole Edouard."

She retracted her claws at the rationale of my response.

Her lips thinned, sweet cherry pink disappearing into a tight line. "That doesn't excuse the fact that you've been using me as some pawn in a twisted game since the moment we met."

We spun faster and faster around the dance floor, our footwork a deadly choreography.

The mirrors multiplied us into an infinite army of battling lovers.

Each turn wound us tighter together, trapped in each other's gravity.

"What was Mark doing alone in your office with you?"

"I hired him to be the photographer for the campaign."

"Fire him." My command echoed off the marble columns, reverberating through the cavernous space, bouncing back at us from every gilded surface.

"Absolutely not. He came from Dubai just for me…" She faltered, catching herself, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip in a gesture that sent heat straight to my groin. "I mean…just on the promise of this campaign."

I spun her faster, forcing her body against mine until not even air could pass between us.

"No. You meant for you. I'm warning you, Sabrina. Get rid of him…or I will."

The color drained from her face, leaving her cheeks as pale as the ivory of her gown. "You would dare to do that, wouldn't you?"

I leaned in close until I almost touched her lips. "Where you are concerned, there is very little I wouldn't dare to keep you.”

"Now who is playing with words? You don't mean for me. You mean there isn't anything you wouldn't dare to protect the House of Diamanti. Including putting my life at risk."

Her sharpened arrow struck its target, lodging deep in a wound already festering.

The memory of her bloodstained dress, her terrified face in that alley as Vittorio's body slumped to the ground, would haunt my dreams until my dying day.

The music played on as we spun about the ballroom, our steps matching the cruel melody.

Our reflections showed a couple in perfect harmony gliding across the polished floor, the chandeliers casting a soft, romantic glow over us as if we were newlyweds at our wedding ball.

Proof how deceptive an image could be compared to reality.