Page 85 of Brutal Crown

“At leasttryto pretend a little.”

“I didn’t even do anything?—”

“You never have todoanything!” she says in exasperation. “I can see it. Everyone with eyes can see it.”

She doesn’t have to spell it out. She doesn’t have to say whatitis. We both know.

She blows out a frustrated breath and presses a hand against her forehead.

“I’m sorry, I’m just?—”

“Don’t apologize,” I say firmly, and I mean it. “My actions have been disrespectful toward you. You have every right to be upset.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “I don’t care what you do or who you love. I’m just… frustrated, I guess, and I poured it out on you.”

Love?

I’ve never tried to describe what I feel toward Lia. I just know it’s strong, consuming in a way that nothing else in my life has ever been. It’s not gentle or easy. It doesn’t fit into boxes or follow rules. It claws at me when I’m alone and burns through me when she’s near. It feels like madness and clarity all at once. Like I’ve been drowning my whole life and only just realized she’s the air.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s not love.

Maybe it’s obsession.

And for someone as damaged as me, that’s all I can offer.

I observe Silvia for a few seconds. I’ve been so hung up on my own problems that I haven’t noticed she might be going through some things too. I tend to forget how similar we are, how we both have to carry on the weight of our families’ expectations.

She stands abruptly from her seat. “I think I should leave. I need to get some rest.”

And then she’s grabbing her bag and leaving.

I remain seated for a few seconds, trying to figure out how we went from having the first normal date we’ve ever had to her walking away like that. After a few minutes, I settle the bill and return home, more antsy than ever.

I retire to my office and try to get some more work done, but Silvia’s words don’t leave my head. For the next few hours, I mull over them as images of Lia appear in my head. My body feels restless, like I can’t stay still until I see her again.

Until I talk to her.

It’s almost midnight when I walk into the kitchen. The overhead lights cast a dim glow across the marble counters, and I don’t bother turning on the rest. I need the shadows right now. I sit at the island, elbows on the surface, head in my hands. I stay like that for a while, staring at nothing, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I should stop thinking about her. Whatever we had should end. She’s with Marco now.

But she’s carrying my child. She’s mine. She’s?—

My fists clench. The more I try to convince myself to walk away, the more it burns.

I don’t know how long I sit there before I finally stand. My chair scrapes the floor with a sharp sound, and I push away from the counter. I leave the kitchen, every single part of me hoping I bump into her even though that might be a terrible idea.

The east wing is colder than the rest of the house. It’s quiet and undisturbed. Maybe that’s why I’ve seen her disappear here a couple of times.

I wait in the corridor, lean against the stone wall near an antique cabinet where my mother used to keep some of her precious hand-painted porcelain tea sets. I remain half-buried in shadow, listening for the softest sound of her, like the pathetic man I am. My breathing is steady, but my pulse isn’t.

I almost give up when hear it—soft footsteps. She rounds the corner carefully and quietly. I watch as she approaches me unknowingly, catching a whiff of her citrus and strawberry scent even before she gets very close.

She sees me too late.

Her body freezes as she just stands a few inches away from me, watching me.

I push off the wall slowly as the silence between us stretches on.