Page 21 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

H oneymooning with your enemy is exactly as awkward as it sounds.

The Maldives villa is disgustingly perfect.

Crystal waters, pristine beaches, and a private infinity pool that stretches toward the horizon like it’s trying to escape.

Much like we are. The entire place is designed for romance, which means it’s essentially a minefield for two people who can barely stand each other.

Thank you, Father, for continuously making my life hell.

“Are you planning to sulk for the entire two weeks?” Aaron asks, leaning against the archway inside the grand villa, as if he’s too scared to come in.

I look up from where I’m scanning for surveillance devices.

Another habit that’s hard to break, especially when you know your father has eyes everywhere.

“I’m not sulking. I’m assessing.” I run my fingers along the underside of an elegantly carved wooden table. “And you should be thanking me. My father almost certainly has this place bugged.”

Aaron freezes. “You’re kidding.”

“First honeymoon lesson: I don’t kid about surveillance.” I pull a tiny microphone from beneath the coffee table and hold it up. “See?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Welcome to the Mortelle family experience.” I drop the device into a glass of water on the side table. “There will be others. Probably cameras too.”

“Oh, fantastic.”

Aaron drags a hand through his hair, a tell I’ve already picked up on. He does it when he’s losing his grip, when control starts slipping through his fingers.

And Aaron Jackson? He puts the freak in control freak.

“So you weren’t joking. We’re actually being watched. All the time.”

“Most likely.” I move toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. “Which means we need to maintain our cover. Even here.”

The room is just as over-the-top as the rest of the villa. A massive canopy bed draped in sheer white, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, and rose petals scattered across the duvet in the shape of a heart.

This is so fucking annoying.

To me, it’s just another reminder of the farce we’re trapped in.

Behind me, I hear the sharp inhale of breath. Aaron’s seen it now. The king bed.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says immediately.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The couch is probably on camera.”

He goes still as I glance up at the ceiling, my suspicion confirmed almost instantly. A small, barely noticeable glint tucked in the corner.

I can’t help but laugh. “It sucks being right all the time.”

Let them watch.

If they want a show, they’ll get one. Just not the one they’re expecting.

Aaron follows my gaze. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

I move to my suitcase, unzipping it with more force than necessary. “We’re married now, remember? Happily so. And newlyweds don’t sleep on couches.”

“I’m not sleeping beside you. No fucking way,” he grits out.

Not going to lie, that one stings. But I get it. I feel the same way.

“Got any ideas, genius?”

The truth settles like stone in my chest: two weeks of pretending, morning to night.

Two weeks of staged affection, even when there’s no one left to fool.

Aaron exhales, sharp and frustrated, dragging a hand down his face.

“This is insane. I need to think.”

He storms out of the villa without another word, leaving me alone in a room designed for intimacy—a bed built for two, and not a trace of desire between us.

Just another reminder of the crazy reality we’re stuck in.

Dinner is served on our private terrace as the sun sinks slowly into the ocean, painting the horizon in breathtaking shades of pink and gold. It’s beautiful, intimate, and utterly wasted on us.

Aaron sits across from me, attention split between his seafood and his tablet, lost in a maze of business, politics, and God knows what else.

Even here, in paradise, he’s incapable of truly being present.

I’ve been watching him for some time and the man is constantly working. I don’t think he knows how to stop.

I catch myself watching the tense line of his jaw, the way his throat works as he swallows. His shirt is unbuttoned slightly at the top, revealing a glimpse of smooth, firm skin that my traitorous eyes keep wandering to. I snap my attention back to my wine, annoyed at myself for noticing.

The untouched beauty around us only amplifies the loneliness I feel inside.

If I were home right now, I’d be picking up a rogue project.

Save a few kids from the pedophiles lurking behind screens.

Fuck, I miss breaking fingers and cutting off dicks.

This entire marriage debacle has really put a pause on my extracurriculars.

Not right now, Cat. Not here.

Right, let’s focus on all the romance I’m not having.

Not even a decent orgasm to show for it.

Why?

Because the man sitting across from me would rather be anywhere else but here.

None of this is real.

And it never will be.

I know power and luxury like the back of my hand but I’ve never experienced an ounce of genuine love. I’ve never known what it feels like to be wanted . Not for who I am. Only for my last name. My bloodline. My usefulness.

Every man who’s ever gotten close has wanted something.

Control. Access. Leverage.

And then quietly, uninvited, comes the thought.

The dangerous one.

What if this were real?

What if, for once, someone saw me. The real me and not the mask, not the name, but the fractured thing underneath? What if someone wanted that?

I’ve spent my life behind walls, mastering the art of being untouchable.

But underneath, I’m jagged. Sharp in all the wrong places. Unstable.

Who could ever love a girl like that?

Who would want a cold-hearted killer?

No one.

Even knowing it’s impossible, even knowing it’s reckless—I still want it.

Just once, I want someone to hold me together when everything else is falling apart.

I turn toward the horizon, letting the silence linger. Below, the waves crash in steady rhythm—gentle, constant. A reminder of everything just out of reach.

I hate that I let these thoughts in. That I even want to pretend, knowing full well it’s a lie.

But maybe pretending is the closest I’ll ever get to something real.

To love.

To being seen.

Aaron glances up suddenly, catching me watching him.

“What?” he asks, brow creased.

“Nothing,” I say, slipping on a faint smile. “Just thinking how most men would consider themselves lucky. A view like this, dinner with a beautiful woman?—”

I sip my wine, letting the rest hang between us.

“Most men aren’t having dinner with their stalker of six-plus months.”

“Fair point. Though in my defense, it was excellent surveillance. You never noticed.”

“That’s not something to be proud of, Caterina.”

I shrug, reaching for the bottle. “In my world, it absolutely is.”

He sets his tablet aside, finally looking at me with those eyes that could gut a weaker person.

“Your world,” he says slowly. “Let’s talk about that.”

Ah crap. I instantly regret going there.

“Let’s not. We’re being watched, remember?”

I take another sip, letting the wine melt across my tongue.

He leans in, voice low, just above the sound of the surf.

“They can’t hear us. Not with the ocean.”

The warmth from the wine dulls the edge of my reflexes just enough to let me consider it.

“What do you want to know?”

He hesitates, which means he’s not as indifferent as he pretends to be.

“Why?”

The simplicity of his question catches me off guard. “Why what ?”

“Why kill rich men? Why involve my sister? Why agree to this marriage?”

“Those are three very different questions,” I reply, careful not to let my voice shift.

Even as my pulse kicks harder, preparing for the fight that always seems to follow men and their moral superiority.

“Each with its own answer. So tell me—which one do you actually want?”

He studies me, jaw clenched, then goes for the one that stings him most.

“The killing. Why go after men with money? What satisfaction could you possibly get from that?” There is so much venom in his voice.

He thinks he’s got me figured out. Thinks I’m bitter than everyone else or that I’m jealous. That I want what I’ve never had.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

I swallow the heat rising in my throat and swirl the wine in my glass, watching the way the light catches on the surface.

“Because someone has to.”

His eyes narrow. “That’s it? That’s your justification? You see yourself as some kind of vigilante?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” he snaps. “Explain how you rationalize deciding who deserves to die. Since when does wealth equal guilt, Caterina?”

“No,” I say again, this time quieter. Sharper.

“Being rich doesn’t make someone guilty.

But unchecked power? That breeds monsters.

The kind who wear thousand-dollar suits and pass legislation that guts protections for the vulnerable.

The kind who host charity galas while trafficking girls through the back door.

The kind who build empires off broken backs, ruined families, stolen futures—and then laugh about it over rare scotch and private flights. ”

He doesn’t look away but he also doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “My father built a world full of predators dressed in suits. I know exactly who they are. And I’m the one who makes sure they don’t keep getting away with it.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Am I supposed to believe you’re doing this out of some crazy sense of justice?” He sounds disgusted. “That you’re some dark saint picking off the bad guys?”

“You asked. I answered. You don’t have to believe it.”

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps rearranging itself.

“And what about my sister? Was Zoe just collateral damage?”

I swallow hard, the guilt thick in my throat. Zoe’s face flashes in my mind, the genuine warmth and friendship she offered me, a gift I didn’t deserve and inevitably ruined.

My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. “I never meant to hurt her. I thought I could keep her separate from all of this. In a perfect world, she wouldn’t have known. And this would have never happened either.” I gesture between us.

He scoffs. “Right. Because you were supposed to get rid of me.”

“Something like that.”

“Then why do it?”

“I don’t know. Same reason you’re still here.”

The tension between us hums, thick and pointed. Not just anger.

Not just betrayal.

Something harder to name.

“Believe whatever you need to,” I say finally. “It won’t rewrite the past.”

“Then tell me, what is the truth?”

I lean forward, my eyes on his. I won’t be the one to look away, because that would mean surrender. And in this quiet battle between us right now, where he’s searching for proof, measuring the type of monster he’s been forced to call his wife…I won’t be the one to lose.

“That monsters don’t always hide behind masks. Sometimes they wear tailored suits. Smile for the cameras at charity dinners. Kiss their wives goodnight while hiding innocent blood beneath their fingernails.”

Aaron keeps staring, not uttering a single word.

While I beg my body to keep my breathing steady.

His eyes are trying to strip me bare, while he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or not.

A psychopath would spin this to benefit themselves, after all.

And Aaron is intelligent. He knows all that.

Maybe it’s easier if he sees me as the villain.

Because if he ever looks past the performance, if he uncovers what I buried just to survive, maybe he won’t hate me.

Maybe he’ll understand me.

And that could destroy us both. Because if he finds the part of me still bleeding beneath the steel, neither of us will make it out intact.