Page 82 of I'm sorry, Princess

Andres and I exchange a glance before nodding at Kirill.

I can already feel the adrenaline kicking in. It’s been too long since I had some real fun, and I’m ready to handle Donaldson and his worthless sons.

“No questions,” Lev mutters, rising from his seat. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got other business to attend to.”

He’s gone before Kirill can respond, his movements sharp and abrupt.

Something’s off about him.

Lev’s been spiraling, obsessing over finding out who killed his family. I can’t blame him for the obsession; I’d be the same way if it were me. But he’s been making stupid decisions, like drowning himself in booze and fighting in Kirill’s underground clubs like a man with a death wish.

Andres finally breaks the silence. “When do you want them collected?”

Kirill leans back slightly, sighing like a parent tired of babysitting unruly kids. “As soon as possible,” he replies. “But tomorrow is Moretti’s Anniversary, and I know howyou two handle parties. I doubt either of you will be functional the day after.”

I smirk, but he’s not wrong.

“I want them collected on Monday,” Kirill says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Everyone’s coming tomorrow, right?” I ask, my voice flat. I already know the answer, but I need the confirmation to prepare myself for the endless parade of fake smiles and empty handshakes from my father’s former associates.

Kirill nods. “We’re coming,” he says simply before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Andres and I both nod silently as he exits.

The room feels quieter now, heavier.

I tap my fingers against the edge of the table, already calculating the best way to handle Donaldson.

Well, that was... interesting.

I shift my gaze to Andres, who is blatantly ogling some random girl’s boobs and ass like he’s at a fucking buffet.

I narrow my eyes at him, my eyebrow arching in disbelief.

“What?” he asks, clearly unbothered.

“Is this how you’re choosing your date for tomorrow?” I ask, amused despite myself. My tone drips with sarcasm, but I let my gaze flick to the girl for a moment.

“She looks like she has a good personality. Probably a lot going on in that little head of hers,” I mock, my voice low and cutting, eyes sliding to Andres. He doesn’t even flinch. I know he’s not interested in these women any more than I am. He takes them out because he has to, because it’s expected, because it keeps the vultures guessing. It’s all for the show, nothing more.

I look at the picture he’s pretending to admire, some doll with painted lips and empty eyes, and I feel… nothing. No spark. No hunger. Just static.

Since Serena, my brain refuses to register anyone else as beautiful. Nothing compares. My dick, on the other hand, throws a tantrum like a spoiled child, dead weight until she’s near, until her scent crawls under my skin and poisons me. She’s ruined every other woman for me, shattered the game I used to play so easily.

And I’m not fucking sorry.

I hate that I want her. I hate the circumstances that make her forbidden. I hate that I can’t shut her out no matter how hard I try. But the truth is darker than hate, because even as she destroys me, I crave her. She’s in my head, in my veins, a chain locked tight around my throat.

And no matter how much I fight it, I don’t want to break free.

Andres looks at me and starts to laugh, his head shaking. “Who are you bringing?” he asks, but there’s a cautious edge to his voice.

He knows better than to ask about what I did with Serena in that room, or why. We’ve got the kind of friendship that doesn’t require questions. We do stupid shit for each other, no explanations necessary.

“Ashley,” I say, and even I can hear the annoyance in my tone as her name leaves my lips.

Andres smirks, that knowing look on his face that makes me want to hit him.