Page 319 of The Devil's Fire

“I can imagine that.” I chuckled lightly.

“I’m so happy Damiano has found you. As a mother, to see him like this fills me with an indescribable joy. Thank you, honey.” She gave my shoulder a light squeeze, and my heart warmed up by her words.

Eleonora excused herself to the restroom. I continued to admire the paintings while sipping my champagne.

“So, we meet again, Althaia.”

I let out a small sigh at the now familiar voice, turning around to see Miciela accompanied by two other women.

“Miciela.” I smiled tightly. There was just something about her that gave me a hard time hiding my dislike towards her.

“Have you been feeling good lately? Any nausea?” She asked with a wide smile. I raised a brow in confusion. “How’s the pregnancy?” She faked a sweet smile, but her eyes were cunning while my heart stopped at the mention of it.

“Oh, silly me.” Miciela put her hand up to her mouth and let out a chuckle along with the others. “I forgot you lost it. So awful for you.” She placed her hand on her chest and exaggerated a sad look on her face.

She took a step closer to me, her eyes turning cold, and dropped her fake act.

“I know what you did to Sofia. I won’t let it slide, and you will pay for it.” She hissed before quickly flashing a satisfying smile and turning around to leave with the two women.

No words came out of me.

My chest heaved from the sharp intake of breath.

My eyes burned as tears wanted to spill.

But I refused to let them.

Instead, I followed her.

I downed the champagne and took out my knife from my garter band.

Anger consumed me.

I couldn’t hear anything.

I couldn’t see anything.

Except for red.

I was seeing red.

And she was going to pay.

“Miciela!” I shouted her name, making her turn around to face me. She was standing by a table, chatting with people around her, and her smirk was still present. Until her eyes landed on the knife in my hand.

Miciela tried to step away from me, but I was faster.

My grip tightened around the handle as I forcefully stabbed her hand, the knife meeting the table to anchor her in place. She let out a blood-curdling scream, and I grabbed a fistful of her hair as I violently shattered the champagne glass against the table’s edge. Without hesitation, I forcefully shoved the sharp shards of shattered glass into her mouth.

But it was not enough.

I smashed her head down on the table.

One time.

Two times.

I yanked her head, forcing her to meet my cold eyes. Her mouth was split open and blood poured out. I placed my hand over her mouth to keep the glass inside as she wept.

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