Page 127

The hallway to the east wing beckons—Marco’s private quarters, his study, the places he goes when he wants to brood. If he’s playing wounded, that’s where I’ll find him.

My footsteps quicken. I’m a loaded gun walking—primed, aimed, burning for a target. Each step sharpens my rage, tightens my focus, numbs the part of me that still hurts.

This is Marco Bianchi. The man who turned lies into vows and used my love as leverage.

The man who married me without ever admitting he knew exactly who I was.

Who let me fall in love with him while burying the truth about my parents’ murder.

Who spent months letting me believe I could hurt him—just to prove, in the end, that I never stood a chance.

Of course this is another manipulation.

Of course he’s setting up the next phase of whatever sick game he’s playing.

The hallway curves ahead.

The sound reaches me before I see him. It makes me slow my pace and tilt my head to listen.

Breathing. Ragged, uneven breathing.

I round the corner and stop dead.

Marco sits on the floor with his back against the wall, head in his hands. His shoulders shake with each breath, and when he drags his fingers through his hair, I glimpse his face.

He looks…broken.

Not the brokenness of a performance, but genuine devastation.

Raw.

Ugly.

Real.

My certainty wavers. Just for a second.

But no. I won’t be fooled again.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, raising the pistol. “Act two of your little performance?”

His head snaps up, green eyes finding mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then something flickers across his face—not surprise, not fear, but something that looks almost like relief.

“Aria.” My name sounds broken in his mouth. “You should go.”

“Should I?” I step closer, weapon trained on his chest. “Because five minutes ago, you had me exactly where you wanted me. Completely at your mercy. And then you just…walked away.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even try to stand.

“So what is this, Marco? What’s the next move in your master plan? Make me think you’re having some kind of breakdown, so I’ll lower my guard? Make me feel sorry for you?”

“There is no next move.” His voice is hollow. “I told you. It’s over.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Right. It’s over when you say it’s over. How convenient.”

“You don’t understand?—”

“No, you don’t understand.” I take another step closer, anger burning hotter with each word. “You think you can manipulate me forever. Make me dance to your tune, react exactly how you want me to react. Well, I’m done dancing, Marco.”