Page 64 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

I don’t bother responding. His grin widens.

“Someone’s being rather prissy,” he drawls.

“Someone’s about ten seconds away from being pitched out of a third storey window,” I snap.

He simply shrugs, entirely unruffled.

“Why are you here?” I press.

“For someone who claims to despise company, you do ask a lot of questions,” he replies, producing a pack of cigarettes.

“If you so much as light one in my dorm, I will kill you,” I warn. “And I only asked one question. Three times,” I add.

He tucks the cigarette pack back into his pocket. “I came to see if you’re ready for the trip,” he says calmly.

“How the hell do you know about that?” I frown.

“Do you think you’re the only one who keeps an eye on people? You watch Ophelia, I keep tabs on Octavia. I know everything about my girl.” He gives a smug grin.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Right.”

Something mischievous lights his eyes. “Don’t,” I warn.

He only smirks. “We’re each seeing a Bellanti sister. Call it… in-law adjacent.”

“I’m not dating Ophelia,” I snap. “And you’re not dating Octavia either, you’re just delusional,” I add, in a clipped voice.

A dangerous look flickers across his face. “Octavia is mine,” he grits out, his eyes narrowing before that deranged grin spreads, all teeth and lunacy. “She doesn’t realise we’re dating yet, true, but we’re coming up on our three month anniversary. Bloody hell, I haven’t even bought her a gift. Flowers, maybe? You think she likes flowers?”

I stare at him, my mouth open. “You need professional help. Focus. Are you actually flying to Switzerland with me?”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly matter of fact. “We’re all going. Isaak and Hunter as well. We’re taking Isaak’s jet.”

I should be surprised. And I’m not.

I’ve sensed there’s tension between them and the other two of Ophelia’s friends, but I’ve never given two shits, to ask why.

“Fine,” I say. “When do we leave?”

I don’t voice the part where, if they don’t start that damn jet within the next hour, I’ll take my own. It sounds desperate, even in my head.

And I might be a lot of things, but desperate isn’t one of them.

Especially not for Ophelia fucking Bellanti.

However, that doesn’t stop me from flying all the way to another country, because this hate, is so damn strange.

Like I always need eyes on her just to breathe normally.

It’s infuriating.

I tell myself the sensible thing would be to fly home to France for Thanksgiving. My father expects me, he’s already arranged the dinner, the guests, the press appearances.

But somehow, what was meant to be France turns into Switzerland.

Just like that.

And I hate her more for it.