Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Because the threat changed.”
“And you didn’t think I deserved to be part of the conversation before you decided?” she asks.
I look away for half a second. It’s enough of an answer.
She lets out a short breath and shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”
“I’m not trying to control you.”
“Then have a conversation with me about it instead of telling me what it’s going to be!” she yells.
“I’m not Adrian,” I shoot back.
Her expression hardens immediately. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, even though I already know exactly where I fucked up.
“Use him to end the argument.” Her voice is lower now, which is somehow worse than when she was snapping at me. “I know you’re not Adrian. That doesn’t mean everything you do is automatically fine.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You don’t have to.” She gestures toward me, frustrated and exhausted and too smart to let me hide behind good intentions. “You get that look. Like you’re so sure you’re right that the rest of us should be grateful when we finally catch up.”
“That’s because I am right.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know I should’ve kept it there.
Her eyes flash. “There he is.”
“Val…”
“No. Don’t Val me.” She grabs the legal pad off the sofa, probably because she needs something in her hands or she’ll start throwing things. “You want to take me somewhere, but you won’t tell me where. You talked to Nico before you talked to me. You and Matteo are doing God knows what behind the scenes. And now I’m supposed to nod along because I’m pregnant and scared and you’ve decided the plan is reasonable?”
“The plan is reasonable.”
“But you didn’t ask me to consent to it.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “If you stay in LA and he gets to you, how much does your consent matter then?”
Her face goes pale.
I hate that I said it. I hate more that I mean it. She walks past me before I can stop her. I let her go because every instinct I have right now is wrong.
I don’t sleep much. Between Matteo’s updates, a call from New York, and the ugly weight of that fight sitting in my chest, there’s no point in trying. Close to dawn, I decide enough time has passed for me to apologize before starting the argument again.
The guest room door is open. She hasn’t been sleeping there, but she goes there when she wants space. I knock once on the open door anyway and step inside. The room is empty. The bed hasn’t been slept in. The closet door is cracked, and the small overnight bag she keeps there is gone.
25
VALENTINA
Imake it upstairs, shut myself in the guestroom, and immediately want to break something expensive. Thankfully, Sebastian owns a lot of expensive things, so I have options. I don’t actually break anything though, mostly because I’m not a child and because I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I grab my bag from the closet and start packing with absolutely no plan.
Leaving Sebastian’s house right now is stupid. I know that. I also know staying here for one more second might make me say something so ugly we never come back from it.
I throw random things into my bag. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or even where I’m going. Mostly I just need to do something with my hands.
I’m tired of men stepping into rooms I’m not in and deciding what happens next. Tired of hearing about plans for my own life. Tired of being pregnant and scared and expected to be reasonable. I change fast, yanking on jeans and a sweatshirt, stuffing my feet into sneakers without bothering to find socks.
I take the back stairs because I don’t want to pass his office. If I see him, I’ll either cave or start round two of the fight, and I have no faith in my ability to make either option dignified.
The garage is dim when I reach it. My car sits where I left it, boxed between two black SUVs that are probably armored. I get in, shut the door, and sit there with both hands on the wheel while the smarter, less dramatic part of my brain tells me to go back upstairs.
I start the car anyway. The gate guard steps out when I pull up, his face already serious.
“Ms. Moretti,” he says, leaning slightly toward my window. “Everything okay?”
For half a second, I consider telling him the truth. I’m furious, humiliated, terrified, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that my ex may be close enough to know my movements better than I do. Instead, I press a hand over my stomach and force my face to tighten.
“I’m having cramps,” I say. “I need to go to the hospital.”
His expression changes immediately, and I hate myself a little for how well it works.