Page 24 of I'm sorry, Princess

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Because the truth is, Lorenzo intimidates me, dramatically. Everything about him screams danger and dominance, and it takes everything in me to hold my ground.

But I won’t let him see it.

I won’t cry.

I hear my father’s voice echoing in my head, stern and unyielding: “Don’t cry, never cry. Only weak people cry. If you feel like crying, hide. No one must see you cry. You’re a Beaumont, and you’re not allowed to cry.”

I push the memory aside, standing straighter as I force a smile onto my face.

“Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.

His blue eyes flicker with something, amusement? Disinterest? as I continue.

“My name is Serena Beaumont. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Not really.

After all, you just called me a prostitute, asshole.

“I’ll be your psychologist during your time here, and I hope we’ll get along well.”

My words are polite, professional, but my tone has an edge to it, subtle enough that only someone listening closely would notice.

He doesn’t say anything, his silence speaking louder than words. He leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting elsewhere as if I don’t even exist.

What a dick.

It’s been five minutes, and I already hate him.

Ok, Serena. Pull it together. Be professional.

“So, everything I say to you is confidential, right?” he asks suddenly, his tone indifferent but edged with something unreadable.

“Yes,” I reply curtly, fighting the irritation bubbling under the surface. Unless you say something suspicious, in which case I’ll happily lock you in jail for the rest of your life, asshole.

“I want to speak to her in private,” he demands, his voice calm but firm enough to leave no room for argument.

The room falls silent. Everyone looks as shocked as I feel.

I’d been briefed about my client before this meeting, warned that he wasn’t the type to open up. He doesn’t speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary, not the guards, notthe staff, not even the other psychologists they’ve thrown at him this week.

Two psychologists in a row, both rejected.

Rumor has it he even made one of them cry before they resigned entirely. Great confidence boost.

And now, out of nowhere, he wants to speak to me. In private.

After calling me a prostitute, no less.

Interesting.

I glance at him, my professional mask firmly in place, but my thoughts run wild.

What the hell does he want? To threaten me? Intimidate me?

Or worse…