Page 164 of I'm sorry, Princess

The sight almost makes me pause. Almost.

But I’m not here for Clara or Lev. I’m here for him.

I shove my way through the crowd, but no one even notices me, they’re all too busy drowning in lust and liquor. My heels click against the floor as I make for the bar. A girl is working behind it, arranging bottles, her eyes sharp but wary.

“Hi,” I say, my voice clipped. “Do you know where Lorenzo is?”

She blinks, cautious. “Mr. Moretti?”

I nearly roll my eyes. Mr. Moretti. Christ. “Yes,” I force out, my throat dry. “Mr. Moretti. Where is he?”

Her lips press together like she’s debating whether to answer. Then, finally, she nods. “Second floor. His suite.”

His suite. Of course he has one. Not just offices, not just a floor, an entire suite inside this kingdom of vice. Aman like him needs his throne. But all I can think about is what’s beneath this club. The basement. The place where he tortures people. A shiver slices through me.

I take the elevator up, the music still thrumming through the walls, vibrating against my ribs, “Never again” by Lost Souls is loud. The hallway is dim, the neon lights pulsing red, blue, purple. Doors line each side, private rooms, intimate shadows, places where men lose themselves and women sell pieces of themselves.

Every door I open leads to something else I don’t want to see. Moans. Whispers. Laughter.

Until there’s only one door left. At the end of the hall.

My chest tightens. This has to be his.

I knock, pulse racing, heart ready to shatter.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice calls out.

Ice runs through my veins.

I push the door open.

And there she is.

I know her. I’d recognize that brunette hair, those red lips, that perfect body anywhere. The woman who clung to Lorenzo at the Moretti Anniversary like she belonged to him. The woman who smiled at him in ways that made my skin crawl.

She lounges casually, like she owns the place, her legs crossed, her smirk sharp enough to cut me open.

“Excuse me,” I manage, my voice tight. “I think this is the wrong suite.”

Her smirk widens. “Who are you looking for?”

My throat closes around his name, but I force it out. “Lorenzo.”

The recognition flashes in her eyes, and she leans back, enjoying this far too much. “Ah.” Her tone drips with cruelty. “Do you want me to pass him a message?”

The room tilts.

“He’s in the shower right now,” she purrs, her lips curving as though she’s savoring every flicker of pain crossing my face. “But we’ll be… busy once he’s done.” She winks. “You know, he’s never satisfied.”

Jealousy scorches me alive. My hands tremble. My blood roars.

I want to rip her off that sofa, grab her perfect hair and smash her face into the wall until that smirk is gone.

But instead, I smile, my voice sharp as broken glass.

“He seemed pretty satisfied with me. Not sure what you mean.”

Her eyes flash, and my fury boils over. I swear, if Lorenzo steps out of that shower right now, I’ll kill him first.