Page 87 of Twisted Addiction

I couldn’t stay, couldn’t submit.

Yet the gun, Dmitri’s presence, the sheer inevitability of it all pressed in like a vice.

My world had narrowed to a single corridor, a single choice—and I felt the walls closing in, the shadows thickening, my heart hammering as I realized the nightmare was only beginning.

There was no escaping the devils circling me.

They’d lock me up no matter what I said. Fine. But I wouldn’t go quietly.

“You’ve been sleeping with her,” I spat, my voice shaking, caught between heartbreak and fury. “You used her like a weapon to hurt me. Fine — lock me up, humiliate me, tell yourself it’s justice. But don’t pretend you’re brave. You’re just a man who hides behind cruelty.”

For a flicker, something almost human crossed his face—but it vanished just as quickly, smothered beneath ice.

“Giovanni,” he said, lethal. A command, not a word.

He didn’t even look at me. Didn’t dare to.

Giovanni stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his movements slow and deliberate.

His hand reached for my arm, firm but hesitant, as if he hated what he was ordered to do.

I thrashed, twisting out of his grasp, nails clawing at air.

“You said you hate me?” I screamed, the words shredding my throat. “Then hate me—but know I fucking hate you too, Dmitri! You hear me? I hate you—for every lie, every bruise, every night I still loved you!”

The sound of my voice cracked through the hall like thunder—raw, ugly, alive.

Every word was a knife, and I didn’t care if it cut me too.

The pain of his betrayal—of knowing Seraphina was real—devoured me from the inside out.

Not a phantom. Not a lie.

A woman. A comparison.

A ghost I could never kill.

I’d believed Giovanni’s lie like a desperate fool. Of course he’d said what Dmitri wanted him to. Of course they’d both played me—master and servant, puppeteer and string. The realization twisted deep in my gut, hot and cold all at once.

I hated them.

But most of all, I hated myself—for ever trusting him. For ever loving him.

Giovanni dragged me down the corridor, his grip tightening as I fought him with everything I had left.

My feet scraped marble, my hair whipping into my face.

“You’re a monster, Dmitri!” I screamed, my voice echoing down the hall. “You killed the only part of me that ever loved you.” I sobbed. “I’ll never forgive you for it.”

My words chased him as he disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the mansion’s silence.

And then it hit me—the unbearable quiet, the weight of my own sobs echoing against the walls.

I turned on Giovanni, fury snapping through tears. “And you,” I hissed, my voice cracking. “You lied to me. You said Seraphina didn’t exist—you let me believe she was fiction!”

He said nothing, his jaw clenching as he tried to guide me forward again.

“You knew she was real—an Orlov heir, Elena’s sister,” I choked out, my voice cracking between sobs. “And you let me drown in his lies, Giovanni!