Page 47 of Cruel Romeo

He means it, I can tell. But that’s not the point. It’s not about the money. Or at least, not just that.

This wasmyhome. My life. My safe haven. The only place I was ever free. I worked hard to get it, worked even harder to keep it, because for once, there weren’t any strings attached.

With my family, anything I ever owned came with the constant reminder that it was given to me. And what could be given could also be taken away.

But no one gave me this. I earned it. Every trinket in this apartment, every knickknack, I bought with the sweat of my brow.

And seeing it all torn apart like this… it’s more than I can bear.

I slip the picture out the broken frame and pocket it carefully. “I need to clean it up,” I croak, trying to sound steadier than I feel. But the anxiety is a knot at the center of my throat, and I can’t speak a single word without it coming out the other side twisted and trembling. “I can’t just leave it like this. My landlord will go crazy.”

“I’ll deal with your landlord,” Petyr says.

I shake my head. “No, you don’t get it. I’m locked into my lease until the end of the year. I have to take care of this place, or else?—”

Or else it’ll prove I never deserved it at all.

Suddenly, Petyr’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Strong, warm.Safe.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. It sounds final. “I’ll get you out of the lease, call a crew to clean up, and buy back anything that cannot be salvaged. But for now, I need you to follow me out of here.” When I don’t answer, his tone hardens. “Hey. Listen to me.”

I get it. What he’s trying to say. Someone hit my place, and by the look of it, it sure as fuck wasn’t random.

But it still breaks my heart to say goodbye.

“Okay,” I whisper finally.

As Petyr herds me outside, I throw one last glance behind my back. At the ruins of my books, my clothes, my carefully built little world. It guts me to realize how little I have left to protect.

If this hit wasn’t random, then it was planned. If it was planned, it must be related to my other life. Not to Sammi, but Sima.

Which means someone must have recognized me. At the wedding, most likely.

And that leaves me with two heavy questions.

One: who.

And two…

How long until Petyr figures it out, too?

19

SIMA

Petyr insists on taking me shopping to replace everything I lost. And by “shopping,” he doesn’t seem to mean Walmart.

My jaw nearly falls when he drags me to a high-end boutique with an unpronounceable Italian name.

Glass cases. Sparkling marble floors. Salespeople in headsets who keep glancing at me like I might steal their furniture.

“I really don’t need designer labels,” I whisper as we’re shown into a private showroom and served chilled champagne.

He doesn’t even blink. “You need options.”

“I need jeans and a T-shirt.”

“You’ll get those, too.” He looks around, as if trying to assure himself they don’t carry anything of the kind here. “Afterwe get you something that doesn’t make you look like you’re headed to clean someone else’s house.”