Page 36 of I'm sorry, Princess

“Andres.” My voice cuts through the room like a blade. He freezes, hand on the handle. “I’m going to need your help with the cameras soon.”

The grin that spreads across my face is slow, dark, almost predatory. I don’t have to explain what I mean. He knows exactly what I’m planning.

He glances back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t do anything fucking stupid over pussy,” he mutters, half a warning, half a plea, before he walks out.

I let him go. He knows me well enough to know I won’t listen.

The cigarette burns between my fingers, the ember glowing red in the dim light as I stare at the wall, thinking about her.

It’s been a few days since I first met Serena Beaumont. Since she walked into this fucking cage, acting like she could fix me, like she could untangle the monster that lives under my skin.

Poor thing.

Sweet.

Innocent.

So fucking breakable.

And that’s exactly why I chose her.

I’ve made her my distraction in here, my little game while I play the bigger one. Watching her squirm under my gaze is the best part of this whole fucking stay. The way her cheeks flush when I get too close, the way her breath hitches when I ask her questions no psychologist should ever have to answer.

She’s a puzzle I intend to solve, piece by piece, layer by layer, until she’s mine to play with however I want.

And make no mistake.

I will have her.

Chapter Ten

Serena

It’s Wednesday. That means it’s time for another session with him.

Lorenzo Moretti.

Unfortunately.

Ever since our last appointment, a disaster I can’t erase from my mind, I’ve tried to prepare myself. I spent the last two days buried in my textbooks, brushing up on psychotic disorders, narcissistic tendencies, and trauma bonding. But deep down, I know it doesn’t matter how many papers I read or how much theory I memorize. None of that will help me when I’m in the same room with him again.

Still, I force myself to act like it will. Like I’ve got this under control.

I grab my keys from the marble console near the door and check my reflection one last time before leaving. Myhouse is silent, the usual quiet echoing too loud in my ears. My father’s already at work, and as for my mother? God knows where she is. Lately, she’s been unusually cheerful, floating around like she’s living in some alternate reality. And no, my father is definitely not the cause of her newfound happiness. But I don’t ask questions. I’ve learned better than that.

As I step outside, I check my phone. There’s a handful of messages from Sienna, still in Japan, sending me updates like she’s starring in her own private movie. Her pictures are beautiful, rooftop shots of Tokyo at night, cherry blossoms, hotel mirror selfies with ridiculous captions. She looks happy. Really happy. And I want that for her.

I send her a quick mirror pic of my own, one I took before leaving. Just a shot of my outfit today. Tight black skirt, white silk blouse, soft curls in my hair, my black-rimmed glasses resting on my nose. More polished than usual.

Not for him.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I don’t dress like this because of Lorenzo Moretti. I do it because I want to look like I’m holding it all together. I want to look strong, untouchable, controlled. I want to look like I’m the one with the upper hand in that room.

But there’s a part of me, a darker, weaker part, that knows the truth.