Page 8 of Intrigue

“Come,” my father commands without greeting back, his voice clipped and authoritative.

Cassian hesitates, releasing my hand slowly. He presses a comforting touch to my lower back. “I’ll let you guys catch up but I’ll be close, okay? I love you.”

I nod stiffly, not saying it back but something in me twists. Love? He thinks that’s what we have? I’ve said it back to him many times but only because I felt I was supposed to. But did I ever really mean it?

And Cassian? He doesn’t notice. He never does. He doesn’t see the way my fingers curl slightly, nails pressing into my palm like I can force myself to say it. But the words won’t come. Becauseloveisn’t supposed to feel like this, like obligation, like something I have to remind myself to reciprocate.

With Sandro, love had never been a choice. It had been wildfire, spreading too fast, too uncontrollable, too consuming.It was hands grasping, bodies colliding, whispers of forever spoken between breaths like an unbreakable vow.

With Cassian, it’s a quiet, steady ember. One I should want. One I should be grateful for. But all I can think about is how I miss the burn and I want to rip my own skin off just to feel something. Anything.

The moment his touch fades, another presence replaces it, setting every nerve in my body on edge.

Alessandro.

He doesn’t even have to touch me. He never did. He was always more than a hand on my back or a whispered reassurance. He was destruction in its purest form.

I follow my father into the villa’s depths. My haunting phantom of an ex trails silently behind us, a shadow stitched to my heels, his stare a brand searing into the back of my neck. The weight of it slithers down my spine, curling tight in my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe. Until I can’t forget that he’s right there.

The corridor echoes under my boots as I follow my father deeper into the villa, past guards who avoid my eyes. We enter his study, and my pulse spikes.

Alessandro goes to stand beside my father’s desk. He is taller than I remember. Those blue eyes slice through me, colder than marble.

Once seated, my father faces me. His voice cuts sharper than the cold silence. “You’ve disappointed me again, Selene.”

I bristle. “And here I thought you’d appreciate my return.”

His lips curl slightly, cigar smoke unfurling around his harsh features. “Always defiant. You forget your duty, your purpose. Running away, hiding behind your art dealer fiancé—it’s pathetic.”

“I’m not hiding,” I chide back.

“No?” My father chuckles darkly, eyes sliding mockingly toward Alessandro. “Then you choose weakness. A fucking painter? How could you forget everything you were taught? You resist every path set for you. Always making reckless choices, just like your mother. I sent you to Valeria hoping you’d come back stronger, sharper.”

“He’s good to me. Better than anyone else ever was.”

“Good isn’t useful, Selene. Strength matters here.” He looks pointedly at Sandro. “Loyalty, sacrifice, ruthlessness. My godson here embodies these. You should have chosen a man worthy of standing beside a Marconi, not some spineless collector of paintings.”

Sandro shifts subtly, his voice silk wrapped around steel. “Your father’s right. You disappoint us, Selene. Choosing weakness over strength never ends well.”

“Don’t talk to me about loyalty,” I hiss bitterly, locking eyes with him, all the pain from his betrayal rising like bile.

Sandro’s jaw clenches, a hint of something—regret, anger?—quickly masked by cold arrogance. “Still the same rebellious girl I remember.”

“And you’re still the pretentious asshole I remember,” I snap.

My father’s hand hits the polished desk, shattering the tense silence. “Enough! I sent you to Valeria so you could learn to manipulate, to command power subtly, like the women who built empires behind closed doors with a mere shift of their skirts and bent men to their wills with a mere whisper. And instead, what have you done? You tormented your aunt, pushed her into madness and an early grave, and now you insult me further by bringing home a painter? A damned painter!! Did I not drill into you that survival means aligning yourself with ruthlessness? Instead, you choose a lapdog instead of a protector.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir,” Sandro interjects coolly, eyes gleaming with calculated amusement.

“This conversation doesn’t involve you, Sandro.”

My father cuts me off with a wave, voice edged in warning. “Valeria’s training should have sharpened you, turned you into someone who neutralizes threats instead of creating them. Sandro understands this perfectly. You would do well to mirror his strength.”

“I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”

Sandro’s expression remains carefully blank, but his jaw tightens perceptibly, a crack in his otherwise perfect composure.

“You both don’t just get to decide who I become,” I add defiantly.