Page 25

I knock lightly on the door before stepping inside. The room smells like her perfume, sweet and sharp—like she’s trying to cover up something rotten underneath.

Emilia is bent over her suitcase, stuffing clothes in without folding them, her movements frantic. The straps of her tank top slide off her shoulder and she doesn’t bother fixing it. Her baggy jeans hang loose on her frame. She hasn’t eaten properly in days. I can tell.

Her face is blotchy, eyes swollen, streaks of dried tears staining her cheeks. She doesn’t look at me when I enter. She just keeps packing.

“The apartment’s ready,” I say softly, clearing my throat. “I had them stock it up with groceries. Sheets. Everything you’ll need.”

She gives a short nod, never pausing her frantic shoving of clothes.

“I also spoke to a friend at Melbourne Community College.” My voice feels oddly gentle, unfamiliar in my own mouth. “They’ve got some late enrollment spots open. If you want… you know, a fresh start. Take a few classes. Get away from all this.”

She snorts, her back still to me. “You can stop pretending you care, Cassian. We both know you’ve been waiting for the day you’d see the back of me.”

I rub the back of my neck, sighing. She’s not wrong. I have despised her manipulations, her petty schemes. But something about seeing her like this—stripped of all the venom, shaking with humiliation and heartbreak—hits differently.

“I know you took Fee to the hospital,” I say, voice lower now. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve left her there with those animals. But you didn’t. That counts for something.”

Her hands freeze over the half-filled suitcase. She stares at the fabric like it’s suddenly foreign.

“I am evil, Cassian.” Her voice cracks, softer than before. “And I’m useless.”

She sits heavily on the edge of the bed, clutching a shirt against her chest like armor.

“I spent half my life chasing after a man who never looked at me the way I looked at him,” she whispers. “I hated my cousin just for existing. Just because she married him instead of me. And now look at me—I ended up fucking Monte like some pathetic schoolgirl desperate for attention.”

I shift my weight, biting back my usual sarcasm. It’s easy to hate her when she’s spitting venom—but now, now she just looks like a girl who never stood a chance.

“If it makes you feel any better…” I finally say, my voice gruff. “Serevin set Monte and Gustavo straight. Brutally. It’ll probably stir up more problems later, but… you can take some pleasure in that. Serves their raggedy asses right.”

At that, she actually laughs—bitter, sharp, but still a laugh.

“Oh, I’ll relish in that,” she spits, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Serves his raggedy ass right.”

She freezes again, her voice trembling as her emotions bubble up like boiling water spilling over.

“No one ever chooses me, Cassian,” she says suddenly, her eyes meeting mine now—red, wet, desperate. “Not him. Not Fioretta. Not my parents. No one!”

Her voice grows louder, higher. Frenzied.

“Serevin belonged to me first!” she screams. “He was mine before she showed up! He was going to ditch Fioretta! He told me once he would!”

Her body shakes as if she might collapse under the weight of it all.

And I can’t mock her this time.

I sit on the chair across from her, elbows on my knees. I stare at her. Not the Emilia I’ve hated, but the broken one beneath all of it.

“You were a kid, Emilia,” I say quietly. “You’ve been trying to win something that was never yours to win. That’s not your fault.”

She sniffles, lip quivering. “Why her? Why always her?”

“Because,” I sigh, “Serevin isn’t capable of choosing like a normal man. With Fioretta… he doesn’t choose her. He needs her.”

Her lip trembles again as her shoulders shake, and she lets out a single sob, raw and sharp. I watch her crumble, this woman who’s always been so loud, so insufferable—finally collapsing under the weight she’s been dragging her whole life.

I look at her, and the memory flashes unbidden. A week before Serevin and Fioretta got married, Emilia had exposed Fioretta.

We were in the car. Vittoria sat beside Serevin in the back seat, like always—regal, calculating. Emilia had turned from the passenger seat, her eyes flashing with bitter urgency.

“Her father is using her. You know that, don’t you?” Emilia had said, voice shaking slightly. “He wants her to spy on you, on all of us. Marrying her—it’s all part of his game.”

Vittoria’s smile had been cold, satisfied. “Well, well, well. Look who’s fallen into our lap.” She had leaned closer to Serevin then. “You will marry her. You’ll build something with her family’s wealth, with their power. She will be our prize, and you, my dear, will reign.”

Then Vittoria had looked at Emilia sharply, her voice smooth but laced with warning. “And you, Emilia, you’ll live with them. You’ll watch her. If you succeed, there will be a share for you in the estate.”

I’d caught Emilia's reflection in the rearview mirror then. She tried to look composed, but I saw it—the desperation in her eyes. I always knew what she really wanted. She didn't want land. She didn't want power. She wanted Serevin.

But Serevin never saw her.

Emilia, the orphan Fioretta's father took in. Always second. Always overlooked.

I blink, pulling myself out of the memory. She’s standing in front of me now, breathing heavily, face flushed, tears running freely. My stomach knots.

“That’s in the past now,” I say quietly. “Fee is family.”

She scoffs, bitter. “Family.” The word sounds like poison on her tongue. “You should go.”

I turn to leave, but then she shifts, her foot catching on a loose strap of her bag. Her body lurches forward before she can stop herself. I react fast, catching her by the waist as she falls into me.

For a second, she freezes in my arms, looking up at me, her face only inches from mine. Her breath hitches. My hands tighten, steadying her instinctively. She feels so small, so fragile, trembling beneath my grip.

“Choose me for five minutes,” she whispers, voice barely audible, cracking, desperate. “Please.”

And then she closes the space between us, her lips pressing to mine, trembling and uncertain.

I should pull away. I know I should. Her pain seeps into me as her mouth moves against mine—aching, lonely, pathetic and hungry for something she’s never had.

Instead, my hand slides up her back, anchoring her to me, deepening the kiss. Her mouth parts under mine, eager, hungry, and I feel the subtle quake of her breath against my cheek. She's trembling as though the world might collapse if I let her go.

Gently, I guide her backward, steering her through the small tangle of bags scattered across the floor, back toward the bed.

Her breath hitches as the backs of her knees hit the mattress, and I take a half step closer, never breaking the contact of our mouths.

She leans into me, hands clinging to my shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only thing tethering her.

She starts to undress herself then—shaky fingers fumbling at the hem of her top, dragging it up and over her head.

She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling like she’s fighting through something invisible but heavy.

Her skin is flushed, and the tear streaks glisten faintly under the dim light.

My hands catch hers, stilling her. I pull back just enough to speak, my voice rough but careful. “If we’re going to do this,” I whisper, brushing my knuckles over her damp cheek, “at least let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes glisten, rimmed red and glassy, but she nods slowly. Wordless. Trusting. Vulnerable. The softest whimper escapes her lips as I kiss her again, gentler this time, my fingers brushing through her hair as if I can soothe some of that ache.

I take my time peeling the rest of her clothes away, piece by piece. Her leggings slide down her legs, pooling at her ankles. Her panties follow, silky and warm in my hands. She shivers again, standing before me in nothing but raw, exposed emotion.

Her body is soft and perfect, but it's her eyes that hold me captive—the way she looks at me through the dried remnants of her tears. Wide, almost disbelieving. As though she can’t understand why I’m still here. Why I haven’t left.

I strip off my own shirt, letting it fall to the ground, and her gaze follows every inch of exposed skin like she's memorizing me, committing me to memory in case this moment vanishes.

When my jeans hit the floor and I step out of them, her breath catches again. Not in fear, but in awe. Still blinking through the stains of old tears, her mouth parts slightly, wordless but open with want.

I lower her onto the bed, easing her back against the sheets.

She watches me, wide-eyed and breathless, her chest rising and falling, her skin flushed with a mixture of nerves and hunger.

The dried remnants of her tears still streak her cheeks, and I kiss each one gently, as though erasing every mark of pain.

My lips trail along her cheekbone, down to the soft shell of her ear.

She gasps quietly as I brush my tongue along the curve, tasting the delicate skin, before I take her earlobe gently between my teeth.

Her body shivers beneath me, her breath coming faster, her fingers flexing against my shoulders.

I capture her hands, bringing them above her head, pinning them softly to the mattress. She yields so easily, trusting me, giving herself over entirely.

“You’re safe,” I whisper against her skin.

Her eyes flutter closed, her body arching slightly as I trail kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, until my mouth reaches the soft swell of her breasts.

I take my time, dragging my tongue around one hardened nipple before pulling it into my mouth, sucking gently, savoring the way her breath catches beneath me.