Page 24 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

I ’m already nursing my second cup of coffee when I hear Caterina stirring in the bedroom.

Perfect timing.

I set the breakfast spread deliberately, each detail planned to perfection. Fresh fruit arranged invitingly in the center, coffee laid out with cream and sugar, aspirin and a glass of water placed thoughtfully beside Caterina’s cup.

The illusion of a devoted husband, flawlessly constructed.

Last night worked better than I could have hoped.

The power outage, the whiskey, the candlelight.

All perfect conditions for what I needed to accomplish.

Getting her to lower her guard has been nearly impossible; Caterina Mortelle exists behind fortifications so high and thick I’d begun to think they were impenetrable.

Until I started noticing her tells.

Tiny betrayals that slip through, uncovering her vulnerability.

It happened during the wedding, when Zoe confronted her.

That look of genuine regret in her eyes, the way her voice softened when she spoke about their friendship.

Then again on the dance floor, when I pulled her closer than necessary.

The slight catch in her breath, the momentary vulnerability.

Some sick part of her is enjoying all of this, maybe it’s the lack of love throughout her entire life.

But then again, what do I know?

It’s strategy. That’s all.

Every calculated glance, every touch, each whispered word designed to make her believe she’s found a weakness in me.

Make her think I’m weak too.

That there could be something out of the ordinary here.

Caterina Mortelle’s weakness isn’t physical. It isn’t even tactical. It’s her heart—the one she pretends not to have.

She is not someone you attack head-on. She’s a fortress, impenetrable, carefully guarded. But even fortresses have their weak points.

So I came up with a new plan. If I couldn’t outmaneuver her, I’d get her to let me in. Find the cracks in her armor by making her think she’d found mine.

I just need her to trust me enough to show me hers.

And when she does, I’ll know exactly how to use that knowledge.

The storm had been a stroke of luck, a gift from the universe. The whiskey had helped sell it, though I had far less than she realized. Every confession, every whispered secret had been calculated to perfection, designed to make her believe she was witnessing the real me.

Guilt sparks, brief and unwelcome. I snuff it out before it can settle. This isn’t personal, it’s survival. She started the game. I’m just playing it better.

Last night gave her just enough of what she wanted. Something real beneath all the armor. A glimpse of the man she thinks might exist under the surface. And it worked. Every so-called confession, every shared secret was just well-placed bait.

The near-kiss had been the riskiest move, but also the most revealing. The way she leaned in, pupils dilated, breath catching—it confirmed everything I suspected.

She wants more. Craves it, even.

The bathroom door creaks open. Caterina steps out, robe slung loose over her frame, sleep-soft and slightly unsteady. Hair mussed. Eyes still clouded. Hungover and disarmed.

For a second I just watch her…maybe a little too long.

That robe slides just off one shoulder. The delicate curve of her neck, her one peaked nipple exposed. Fragile softness where she usually has armor.

Dangerous territory, Jackson.

Exactly where I shouldn’t let my mind wander. And where it’s already going.

Vulnerability doesn’t suit Caterina. She’s uncomfortable, which is exactly where I need her to break her down, piece by careful piece.

“Morning,” I say, making my voice deliberately bright, knowing it will irritate her pounding head. “Feeling rough?”

“I hate you a little right now.” She makes a beeline for the coffee.

I laugh, watching her wince at the sound. “There’s aspirin by your cup. And water, which you should drink first.”

“Why are you being nice to me? Did you poison the coffee?”

“You revealed enough of your secrets last night. I’m hoping hangover gratitude will loosen your tongue further.”

“Unlikely. I’m Russian on my mother’s side. We reveal nothing while hungover.”

“Worth a try.” I push a plate of fresh fruit toward her. “Eat something. It’ll help.”

She complies, eating without resistance. That’s enough.

The invincible Caterina Mortelle, who’s been three steps ahead of me for months, is finally following my lead.

Fuck, it feels good to be back on top of my game.

“About last night—” she begins.

“We were drunk,” I interrupt, lying to her face. It’s necessary.

Caterina needs to believe I’m dismissing what happened, it’s the most important step for this plan to work. “People say things when they’re drunk. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Right,” she agrees, though I catch the barely perceptible flinch. Disappointment. Another chink in her armor. “Drunk confessions don’t count.”

She tries to hide it, but the genuine hurt in her eyes when I dismiss last night tells me more than words could. She might be lethal, but beneath all that ruthlessness is someone desperately starved for genuine connection, even if she refuses to admit it.

“Exactly.” I sip my coffee, watching her over the rim of my cup. “Let’s be clear about what happened. We got drunk, we said things, we almost did something we’d both regret. But nothing’s changed.”

“Totally.”

Caterina sounds defeated for once.

“Look, considering how intense things got last night, I think it’s best we stay focused and stick to our original plan,” I continue. “We’re still in the exact same situation we were in before the storm hit.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

I lean forward, assuming the position of someone laying out terms. “We’re trapped in this marriage, forced to play our respective parts.

Neither of us chose this situation, and I certainly don’t expect us to suddenly develop genuine feelings just because we shared a few drinks and some honest conversation. ”

The words land as intended—sharp, direct. For a moment, something flickers behind her eyes. Not quite sadness. Not quite regret. But somewhere in that neighborhood.

Good. Let her feel the sting.

“I completely agree,” she says, lifting her chin with false bravado. “Last night was an anomaly. A glitch in the matrix.”

I let the silence stretch, sipping my coffee slowly as I watch her. In business, silence is power; it unsettles the weak. But this isn’t business, and Caterina is anything but weak. She just watches me back, waiting.

“We need to get off your father’s radar. Which means convincing him, and everyone else, that we’re exactly what they expect: madly in love and drunk on each other.”

Her eyes narrows. “And privately?”

“We endure. We plan. We play our roles until we have leverage. Your father’s waiting for us to fail. We don’t give him that satisfaction.”

She traces the rim of her cup, thoughtful. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we sell the illusion so well, even he believes it. He wants us small. Off-balance. Scared.”

“If we give him devotion. Make it look convincing, obsessive, sickeningly perfect—” she continues. “He’ll think he won. And by the time he realizes otherwise, it’ll be too late.”

Our eyes lock. A silent understanding passes between us, sharp and loaded.

There’s potential here.

But just beneath it is an open invitation to betrayal.

And we both know it.

She could’ve killed me a dozen different ways by now but she didn’t. And I don’t think that’s on her agenda anymore. Maybe it never was, after all she revealed last night.

“He’ll only see what we show him. A perfect marriage. Loyal. Devoted. Obedient. And when his guard slips…” she says, cool and composed.

“…we’ll be ready.” I nod.

The drive is still out there and whatever’s buried on it has the power to either sever my leash or tighten it. Giovanni and Tristan are hiding something, and I’m running out of time to find it.

“You know, for a man who hates losing control, you’re placing an awful lot of trust in me. What if I’m still playing for the other side?” The corner of Caterina’s mouth tugs into a slow, amused smile.

She’s baiting me. Testing for weakness.

I give her none.

“You’re not,” I say, steady and certain. “You’ve already proven that. And I don’t trust you, Caterina. I trust necessity.”

“Good. Because trust gets people killed.”

Adrenaline sparks low in my chest. It’s not fear, not with her. It’s the hum of danger in close quarters. The kind that sharpens your senses and dulls your mercy.

She’s right. Trust is the first mistake.

And somehow, this fragile alliance of secrets and staged affection, feels more volatile than when we were enemies across a room.

Because now she’s even closer. Now she’s watching.

And I’m not sure which one of us is the better liar.

“Tell me. How does this benefit you, Aaron?”

I guess we’re not done with this conversation.

“Time,” I say with a sigh. “Time to figure out what’s on that drive. Time to shield my business from your father’s chokehold.”

What I don’t say? Time to dissect you.

Time to learn your patterns, your blind spots, your pressure points. Time to watch how your defenses slip and discover exactly how far I can push before they snap back into place. Time to map out every angle of your eventual undoing.

Time to decide the cleanest way to end this, if it comes to that.

“And when our individual goals stop aligning?” she asks.

“Then we maintain our distance. Physically, emotionally, strategically. We establish clear boundaries and respect them.” I meet her gaze directly. “This isn’t a true partnership, Caterina. It’s a mutually beneficial transaction.”

She’s hunting for the lie. But it’s not in what I’ve said. It’s in what I’ve withheld.

Boundaries? They’re a bluff. A line drawn in smoke to make her wonder what it would mean to cross it.

“Allies, but not really,” she murmurs.

I extend a hand across the table, palm up. “Partners in name only?”

Her eyes flick to mine, and for a beat too long, she hesitates.

She doesn’t know she’s already spiraling in. That the seed’s been planted and doubt is starting to bloom.

That makes two of us.

Last night cracked something open.

And how she plays this moment will tell me just how deep that fault line runs.

She places her hand in mine, fingers cool and steady.

Too steady. I’ll have to fix that.

“Partners,” she echoes softly, “in name only.”

“Good. Now finish your breakfast. We have parasailing at eleven.”

Her brows arch, genuine surprise flickering across her expression before she can mask it. “Parasailing?”

“We’re honeymooners, remember? We need pictures, experiences. Happy memories.” I take a bite out of a perfect strawberry.

“And you chose parasailing?”

“Happily married couples step out of their comfort zones together, Caterina,” I say as I stand from the table, turning toward the terrace. “At least, that’s what your father’s people will report back.”

She visibly stiffens.

“Try to look enthusiastic. These photos might end up framed on your father’s desk.”

She makes a gagging sound. “Ugh, gross. Please stop talking.”

I laugh, almost making it out the door before pausing, unable to resist one final twist of the knife.

“Oh, and Caterina? You talk in your sleep.” A seed, planted. Let her wonder what I heard.

Her eyes widen. “What did I say?”

“Just thought you should know.”

I step onto the terrace, letting the morning sun hit my skin like a slow burn of satisfaction. Behind me, I can feel her wide-eyed confusion, her mind racing through possibilities.

She’s questioning everything now. What’s real, what’s performance, where the line between them actually lies.

There’s a quiet kind of power in planting doubt like seeds. In watching someone’s carefully constructed reality start to bend and warp.

Last night left a crack in her steel walls. Today and every day after, I’ll spend widening it—inch by inch—until every wall she’s spent years perfecting has nowhere left to stand.

Because for too long, I’ve given up power in this twisted arrangement.

No more.

Control isn’t a want. It’s a necessity. And with every well-placed word, every intentional pause, every touch that lingers just a second too long…I’m reclaiming it.

The trick is finding balance.

Push too hard, and she’ll see the manipulation for what it is. Move too slowly, and she’ll rebuild what I’ve only begun to dismantle. I need to keep her uncertain, unsure whether the pull between us is genuine or just another layer of the game.

Because that’s where her weakness lives. Not in the weapons she hides or the blood on her hands, but in the soft, impossible hope she tries to bury beneath it all.

I saw it last night, clear as day.

The way her voice changed when she talked about being Via, the version of herself who wanted mornings without lies. The girl who found something real in friendship with my sister. Someone who craved normal, ordinary, human connection.

That’s my way in. Not through weakness, but through hope.

I’ll make her believe I see her. Not just the assassin, not just Mortelle’s weapon, but the person she barely allows herself to be.

Make her believe I understand what it’s like to live behind masks.

And when the last of her walls crumble, when she hands me her trust like a gift, I’ll finally have all the leverage I need.

It’s ruthless, yes.

But I didn’t start this war. She did.

With cameras in my apartment. With my sister’s name in her mouth. With threats dressed as smiles.

I’m just returning the favor with interest.

This time, the weapon is connection itself. And no amount of armor can protect someone from that.

This isn’t about revenge, it’s bigger than that.

It’s about survival.

About securing everything I’ve built. Everything that’s mine.

And if breaking Caterina Mortelle’s heart is the price of my freedom, then so be it.

I am, after all, a businessman. And the heart of my enemy is the most strategic acquisition of all.