Page 20 of Brutal Crown

The words are cold, harder than I intend them to be, but there’s a part of me that wants her to feel the weight of them. I want her to feel as small, stupid, and humiliated as I do.

There’s scattered laughter around the table. Some are polite, others a bit careless. Lucia’s laugh is the loudest. I suspect she’s a little drunk, as her wine spills across her plate from how hard she’s giggling. But Lia doesn’t react.

With her head still held high, she moves toward Lucia to collect her ruined plate.

“Rosalia.”

Her body stiffens. It’s the first time I’m calling her by her name. She doesn’t say anything in response to my call. She just turns to look at me.

“Bring my fiancée a new napkin,” I say, trying to control the hardness in my voice.

I feel the heat of Marco’s glare on me, but there’s nothing he can do.

Lia nods, moving toward the sideboard to retrieve one when I speak again.

“No,” I stop her.

Her expression shifts to a confused one as she looks back at me.

“Use yours.”

“Mine?” she asks, incredulous.

I smile, but it doesn’t touch my eyes. “Yes. The one tucked into your apron. That’ll do.”

Her lips part as if she wants to say something, but she pulls it free without a word and crosses the room to hand it to Silvia.

“Wipe her hands,” I add, my voice dropping.

The room grows dead silent. The weight of the moment hits everyone, and they sit, frozen, as Lia hesitates. I can see the tension in her face, the anger flickering in her eyes. But she does as she’s told. She reaches for Silvia’s hand. I catch the equal confusion and slight annoyance in Silvia’s expression as she raises her hands to let Lia dab at them.

That’s when her hands start to shake.

I watch it, watch her humiliate herself like this, and part of me hates myself for doing it, but the other part of me is seething.

Lucia’s voice breaks the silence. “This is better than dessert.”

More chuckles. Something twists in my stomach, but I ignore it. I’ll hate myself later. But for now, I revel in the pleasure of making her feel every second of this. Her hands still tremble as she finishes, then steps back, her face flushed as she avoids my gaze for the first time.

I want her to look at me.

“Anything else?” she says through gritted teeth.

Oh, silly girl. She doesn’t seem satisfied.

“Yes, actually,” I say casually before tipping my wine glass to the side. The red wine spills across the white tablecloth, blooming like blood near my plate and dripping onto the polished floor.

“Clean it,” I say, my voice smooth and empty.

She stares at me for a beat before speaking. “Of course.”

She moves toward the spill, reaching for the cloth at her waist.

“No,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Kneel.”

“What?” she whispers.

I don’t repeat myself. Slowly, she sinks to her knees before me and dabs the cloth against the floor, her face burning. Everyone is watching her, and no one is hiding their amusement. My father laughs softly for the first time.