His jaw tightened. His expression twisted with fury — not the performative rage of a man playing Boss for his woman's benefit, but something rawer, something that lived in the animal part of his brain where instinct overrode calculation. Without warning, he seized my wrist and yanked me back inside. His grip was iron. His fingers dug into the tendons above my pulse point with the practiced pressure of a man who knew exactly how much force it took to make someone comply without leaving a bruise that showed.
"I knew you were planning something!" His voice was low, venomous, meant only for me. "But guess what? I'm not giving you the chance to ruin this for me. Tomorrow, I'll be standing at the top, and you? You'll spend the rest of your life regretting it."
With that, he shoved me into the guest bedroom. The door slammed. The lock engaged from the outside — a heavy, mechanical sound, the bolt sliding home with the finality of a cell door.
I stood in the darkness. The room smelled of dust and disuse. Through the wall, from the master bedroom next door, I could hear muffled laughter. Then the bed creaked. The rhythm was unmistakable. They weren't even trying to be quiet. They wanted me to hear. That was the point — the last humiliation, the final turn of the screw, the reminder that I had been replaced in every room of this house.
I exhaled slowly. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave crescents in the skin. The gold signet ring pressed against my fourth finger, the Ferrante crest a small, hot brand against my flesh.
If Nico wanted me to watch his big moment, I'd make damn sure he had front-row seats to his downfall.
