Page 22 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

B y our third day in paradise, we’ve settled into an uneasy routine.

Each day, another rehearsed lie.

Aaron spends mornings buried in work on the terrace, while I escape to the infinity pool, slicing through crystal-blue water until my muscles ache. But afternoons require appearances—staged smiles, intertwined fingers, stolen touches that feel both forced and somehow natural.

We walk barefoot on pristine beaches, take sunset cruises around the island, dine under the curious eyes of guests and staff alike, always projecting the image of the newlyweds we’re expected to be.

Yet no matter how perfect the charade, I still notice my father’s men lingering around the resort, watching our every move.

Their presence feels deliberate. Another reminder from Mortelle that we’re never truly alone.

The performance wears on us both, fraying our nerves with every passing day. By nightfall, Aaron retreats into himself, rigidly maintaining distance in our shared bed until it’s safe enough to slip quietly to the floor. I pretend not to notice.

Tonight, though, everything shifts.

Clouds had begun to gather hours ago, thickening the air with static.

A storm rolls in with sudden violence, darkening skies swallowing paradise in furious shades of gray and black. Lightning splits the sky open, illuminating the beach in blinding flashes of white-hot rage.

I’ve always found comfort in storms. Something about their raw power, their wild fury, echoes the chaos inside me. Quiets my mind somehow.

Standing by the window, I welcome it in.

“Quite a show.” Aaron appears beside me, offering me a glass of whiskey.

I take it, nodding my thanks. “Nature reminding us who’s really in control. Did you poison this?”

He rolls his eyes. “Only you would think to do that.”

Another flash of lightning illuminates his face—tired, guarded, conflicted. He looks as worn down as I feel. The power flickers violently, then plunges us into sudden darkness.

I’m already reaching for my phone, activating the flashlight function. “There should be candles in the kitchen. I saw them earlier.”

“Perfect.” Frustration bleeds into his voice.

“I guess that means we’re trapped inside.”

“Stuck in a villa with nothing but room service and a fully stocked bar. And a night off from our performance. How terrible.”

I laugh, despite myself. “Well when you put it that way, I know what I’m doing tonight.”

Lightning flashes again, closer this time, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that shakes the windows.

We fumble our way through the dark room, finding candles and matches in a drawer. Soon, the space is bathed in warm, flickering light.

I might prefer it this way, actually. It’s cozy.

“Not exactly how I planned to spend the evening.” Aaron settles onto the couch with his whiskey.

“What were you planning? More spreadsheets?” I curl up at the opposite end, tucking my feet beneath me.

“What’s wrong with that? They’re soothing. Predictable.”

I roll my eyes. “God forbid you relax on your honeymoon.”

“This isn’t a real honeymoon. And some of us don’t have the luxury of taking two weeks away from our responsibilities.”

“Poor overworked Aaron.” I drain my glass, feeling the whiskey warm my center. “Always carrying the weight of the world.”

“Fuck you.” He finishes his drink, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table. He refills both our glasses without asking.

“I know you want to but we both know you wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

Aaron laughs so loudly, it makes me jump. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him chuckle, let alone laugh like this.

“Is that because you like to bring your knife collection to bed? How romantic.”

“Says the sadist.”

“You’re not supposed to know that, you fucking creep.” His smile disappears.

I place my hand on my chest, pretending to be offended. “Ouch. My poor, little heart.”

He keeps his eyes on me as he takes a long drag from his glass. “There is so much you don’t know about me.”

“Oh yeah? Do tell.”

“Get bent,” he grits out and I laugh, draining my second glass.

Three drinks in, the storm hasn’t let up, and the whiskey’s doing its job. My edges are fuzzing. Aaron’s too. Candlelight blurs the sharp lines of his face, dulls the scowl he wears like armor.

Or maybe I’m just drunk enough to imagine softness where there isn’t any.

I lean in. “Let’s play a game.”

He glances over, skeptical.

“Truth for truth. I ask, you answer. Then you get a turn.”

“Why the hell would I agree to that?”

“Because you’re curious.” I tip my glass toward him. “And because we’re too drunk to pretend we’re civilized.”

“No questions about the drive or my business with your father.”

“No questions about what I do after dark.”

A beat. “Deal.”

He leans back, arms crossed, eyes on me like he’s already playing chess.

“Go,” he says.

I don’t start soft. “Why do you hate losing control so much?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I never said it would be easy.” I sip again, slow. “Answer the question, husband.”

He flinches before cringing.

Perfect.

He answers, finally. “Control’s the only thing that’s ever kept me safe. My parents were volatile. I learned early that if I could control my environment, my reactions, Zoe’s safety, I could keep the damage from spreading.”

Raw honesty wasn’t what I expected. Thank you, whiskey.

Seeing that boy in him—the one who had to become his own armor—mirrors too much of me. It punches somewhere I thought was long dead.

I clear my throat. “Your turn.”

“Why did you really become friends with Zoe?”

I consider lying. But something about the storm, the candlelight, and the quiet between us makes the truth easier to reach for.

“At first? To get close to you. You saw too much.”

His jaw tenses, but he waits.

“But Zoe...she was different. She trusted easily and loved hard. I didn’t know people like that existed.” I shrug, the truth landing heavier than expected. “Being her friend was the most honest thing I’ve done in years.”

“She has that effect on people.”

“She does.” I tuck my knees up, suddenly cold. “My turn. How many people have you been with?”

His brows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“Fine. What did you do the night of Untamed?”

He groans. “That’s not even close to fair.”

“Everything’s fair in this game.”

Aaron downs what’s left of his drink, then sets the glass down like a gavel. “Enough women. No commitments.”

Then he leans in, gaze fixed. “Your turn.”

I lift a brow. “You want my number now?”

“You asked me.”

I hold his stare, weighing how much I want to give him.

“Not exactly. What’s ‘enough women’ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“You little whore.”

He shakes his head like he’s arguing with a child. “I’ll let you think that. Now it’s your turn.”

I glance at my glass, swirling what’s left. “Nine men. Two women. No serious relationships.”

“Not interested, or…?”

“Hard to build anything when you’re living two lives. My version of intimacy doesn’t come with Sunday brunch or meeting the parents.”

“But here you are. Married.”

He’s smirking. So proud of himself. How cute.

I lift my glass. “Yeah, well gun to my head and all that.”

“Your turn,” he says, leaning in, eyes sharper than before. The alcohol has softened his guard, but not his focus. If anything, it’s made him more savage.

Focus, Caterina. You’re not some drunk girl with a crush. You’re lethal. You don’t forget that.

Then he says it.

“The kiss at the altar. Did you feel something?”

I almost choke. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Every part of me wants to dodge. Deflect. Laugh it off. But the whiskey’s turned off my filter. Or maybe it’s just him.

“What exactly are you asking?”

“When we kissed. Was it just for the crowd—or did it hit you too?”

I empty my glass. “I didn’t plan to feel anything.”

“But you did.”

Not a question. A verdict.

I reach for the bottle, but it’s empty. “We need more alcohol if we’re doing this.”

“There’s more in the bar,” he says, but neither of us moves.

The candlelight flickers across his face, casting him in bronze and shadow. He looks unreal. Too sharp. Too beautiful. And that’s a problem.

I want to tell him he has nice eyes.

Do not start going soft.

“Whose turn is it?”

Guess he’s dropping this, thank goodness for that because right now I’m regretting chugging whiskey like it’s water.

I shift. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, long and steady.

“You remind me of my mother.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Aaron stares into his glass like it might give him an out. “She was difficult. Beautiful. Dangerous. She’d charm you one minute and gut you the next. She had an affair. Zoe’s my half-sister.”

He looks up. Our eyes lock.

“But you probably already knew that.”

I flinch. Because I did.

“And you think I’m like that?”

“I think you walk into people’s lives, take what you need, and vanish. I watched you do it to my sister.”

That hits harder than I expect. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice sharpens. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I can’t.

Not completely.

“It’s more complicated than that and you know it. We’re talking about the bad people here.”

“It always is.” Bitterness bleeds through the words. “My mother had a whole vault of complications too. Justifications for every cut she made.”

“I’m not your mother.”

“No. You’re worse. And that scares the shit out of me.”

His jaw tightens the second it’s out, like he’s already trying to shove the words back in.

Maybe I should be angry. Maybe I should throw something.

But he gave me a piece of himself.

So I give one back.

“I’m scared of you too.”

Aaron tilts his head. “I don’t buy that.”

“You should. You’re...” I falter, words catching. “You’re steady. In motion. Your world makes sense. Clean lines, rules, logic. I’m chaos. But when I’m near you I start to…”

The rest snags in my throat.

“You start to?”

“Want something else.”

Something stupid and reckless stirs in my chest. Wanting anything in this world is a liability. Wanting him? That’s how girls like me end up dead.