Page 161 of I'm sorry, Princess

I grab the keys. The engine roars to life, and I drive in silence. No music. No distractions. I don’t want to risk ruining my makeup with tears, but they threaten anyway, stinging behind my eyes. I force them back down. Survival mode. That’s what I’m in now. Cry. Eat. Sleep. Work. Repeat.

At my favorite coffee shop, I walk in and freeze. A familiar face sits by the window, hunched over a laptop. Charming smile, pressed shirt, smug aura. Kyle. The man my mother used to sleep with. My stomach twists.

I try to breeze past him, pretend I don’t notice, but of course, he does.

“Good morning to you, too,” he says smoothly, flashing his perfect teeth.

I give him a saccharine smile. “Pleased with the mother’s performance and thought you’d try the daughter too?”

His grin widens, unbothered. “Would you be interested?”

Ew. My skin crawls. Lorenzo ruined every man for me, but even if he hadn’t, Kyle is untouchable. Toxic. Off-limits. A man who’s been with my mother? No. Never.

“No,” I say flatly, my voice laced with disgust.

He lifts a brow. “I’ll try not to take offense to that.”

The barista slides my latte across the counter. “Already paid by Mr. Hunter.” She nods toward him.

Of course.

I shove my card across the counter anyway. “Take it as a tip.”

Kyle smirks, winks at me as he leaves. My stomach flips with irritation. It’s too early for this bullshit.

By the time I get to work, it’s 9:15. I bury myself in paperwork, emails, assessments, anything to distract myself. There are no appointments today, and honestly, I prefer it that way. The silence is safer.

And when the work slows, when the office grows quiet, I pull out my notebook. The one that’s been my salvation these past days. I’ve started writing again.

Funny, isn’t it? Out of all this pain, something good came. My novel. My characters. They bleed for me, they cry for me, but unlike me, they’ll get a happy ending. I’ll make sure of it. They deserve it.

I blink at the screen, my fingers cramping from typing. Two and a half hours. That’s how long I’ve been lost in my words, in a world that isn’t mine. My chest feels lighter, my pulse steadier. For a moment, I almost forget the wreckage of my own life.

Even if what I’ve been writing is three chapters of pure smut. Heat coils low in my stomach as I scroll through the words I’ve poured out, my characters moving like echoes of memories I can’t let go of. Him. Always him.

Damn Lorenzo.

He ruined me for anyone else, and it shows, because every male character I write is a shadow of him. Possessive. Obsessive. Brutal. And every scene, every filthy detail, it’s us. My thighs clench as I slam the laptop shut, cursing myself.

The clock reminds me it’s past lunch. My stomach is empty, but the thought of food turns me sick. Coffee will keep me alive until the end of the day.

The sound of the door opening makes me stiffen. No knock. No respect. Just the sharp click of designer heels against my office floor.

Blakely.

She walks in like she owns the place, like the air bends for her. Heavy makeup, lashes like spider legs, a dress so tight I wonder how she’s breathing. She smells like money and poison.

“Serena,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet with venom underneath.

“Hi, Blakely.” I force a polite tone, though disgust curls in my stomach. “What can I do for you?”

She doesn’t bother to answer. Just drops herself into the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs in a way that screams performance. “Oh darling, I don’t think you can help me with anything.”

Of course. The knife is coming.

I fold my hands on the desk, forcing myself still. “I’m not sure I understand.” My voice is even, but my patience is stretched thin, every muscle in me itching to snap.

Her eyes flick down to her phone, her attention already drifting as though I’m a waste of her time. “Well,” she begins with a fake sigh, “your… situation doesn’t look very good. Your relationship with one of our patients? It’s not exactly the image we want associated with the Bureau.”