Page 18 of Marriage of Revenge

“Crystal clear.” I salute him as he slams the door.

I press my back against the cold marble wall, struggling to collect myself. I have to find a way out, or a message, anything.

I swallow the panic. There's no time for that.

My eyes scan every inch of the opulent bathroom, the gilded faucets, the ornate mirrors... But it’s a patterned tile near the baseboard that catches my attention. Its colors seem slightly mismatched, not fitting the luxurious theme of the bathroom.

Acting on a hunch, I kneel and push it. To my astonishment, it gives way, revealing a hidden door.

It’s wide enough for me to squeeze through into a dimly lit corridor.

Every step I take is calculated, knowing that my time is limited and the fluttering in my stomach turns into churning.

I slip through the hidden passage, my senses immediately heightened by the hushed but unmistakable sounds of skin on skin, of breathy moans and stifled sighs. The corridor turns and I find another panel, this one slightly ajar.

Cautiously, I peer through the gap.

The sultry ambiance in the hidden room is thick, almost palpable. And there he is—Antonio. My heart doesn't just skip a beat; it performs the kind of chaotic routine that would make my old ballet instructor faint.

The reflection of his scar in the mirror catches the light like a broken promise. His back is a landscape of strength, and more scars and ink, muscles coiled and shifting beneath tattoos that map out years I wasn’t part of. Years he spent becoming this version of himself, while I was learning how to stand again.

He’s got Paola pinned against the wall, her dress bunched around her hips, her head thrown back in bliss. My stomach twists. A few hours ago this is the woman who covered my scars with foundation, erased every mark that proved I survived, made me pretty for the auction block while she was probably thinking about the way he makes her gasp his name like a prayer.

Their bodies move together with an urgency that's hard to watch and yet impossible to look away from. Her sighs andwhimpers echo off the walls, each sound a fresh paper cut to my pride. A memory hits me like a failed lift—the dance studio, years ago. Black leotard, soft lights, his eyes following every movement like he was memorizing a routine he'd need later. I was on fire then, every pirouette perfect, every leap defying gravity. His gaze was a spotlight I craved.

Now? I can barely manage a full turn without the room spinning. Some days my body feels like it's still fighting a war nobody knows about. I dig my nails into my palms until they leave crescents, trying to ground myself in pain that's simple, pain I can control.

The room feels like it’s closing in, suffocating me with the scent of sweat and sex, musk and the bitter edge of Antonio’s cologne. It shouldn’t be hypnotic. It shouldn’t make my skin prickle with awareness, but I’m trapped, every nerve on high alert.

The way his hips roll, the way he moves inside Paola with a rhythm that makes every dark romance novel I've smuggled into my room seem tame in comparison. The raw, explicit view is a humiliation all on its own, an invasion I can't unsee—like someone took the steamiest scene from my hidden book collection and turned it into a nightmare starring my stepbrother.

And he's... impressive. The kind of impressive that makes my doctor's warnings about "physical intimacy might need…work” feel like another cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

His voice cuts through the heavy air, rough and low, vibrating with dominance. “You’re dripping for me,” he growls, his words slicing into the room like a blade. His hand slips between Paola’s legs, and she cries out, shuddering under his touch. “So fucking wet, so ready to be used. Tell me how much you love this.”

“I love it. I need it,” she moans even louder.

My gaze shifts to Antonio's face in the mirror, and my breakfast threatens a reappearance—not because of the burn scar that splits his skin from temple to jawline like someone tried to draw a line between who he was and who he became. Not even because of how it transforms him from the boy who played Chopin into something that belongs in the dark romance novels I’ve been devouring. The ones where the villain makes you want him even when he's breaking you.

No, it's because of his eyes.

Those thunderous eyes find mine in the mirror, and my knees threaten their usual betrayal. There's no surprise in his gaze, just heat that has nothing to do with the fire that marked him. Of course not. This is choreographed, another performance where I'm the audience he's trying to break. He wanted me here, wanted me to watch him fuck someone else.

He slows his movements, every thrust deliberate, punishing, as his fingers continue to play between Paola’s thighs, drawing out whimpers and cries that echo off the walls. His lips curl into a smirk, and his voice drops to a brutal rasp. “I’ll win the auction,” he says, the words a venomous promise. “I’ll marry my pretty little former stepsister, put that fucking ring on her finger. But don’t think for a second it’ll mean anything.” He bites down on Paola’s neck, and she shatters against him, her body convulsing with pleasure. “I’ll still fuck you like this,” he continues, his gaze never leaving mine. “Whenever I want. However I want. That marriage won’t mean shit.”

The room spins, my vision blurring with hot, shameful tears that I refuse to let fall. His words are a dagger, each one twisting deeper, reminding me of how little control I have in this nightmare. The tiny spark of heat and hope I felt is gone, smothered by the icy weight of humiliation and betrayal.

Antonio’s eyes stay locked on mine, daring me to react, daring me to show how deeply he’s cutting me. But I hold myselftogether, nails still biting into my palms, blood thundering in my ears, fighting the urge to run. This is his game, his stage, and he’s the monster I can’t escape.

But I won’t break. Not yet. Not in front of him.

Never in front of him.

The corridor spins around me as I half-run, half-stagger back to the bathroom, begging the universe my five minutes of freedom haven't cost someone else their life.

I barely manage to push the secret panel back into place and smooth down this ridiculous dress before tearing the hair extension away, when the bathroom door bangs open. Georgio looms there like the world's most irritated bodyguard, eyes blazing. "What the fuck are you doing?”

“I didn’t like those,” I say. And continue to take them one by way. Because Georgio knows that bringing me with hair half long, half short isn’t the look my dad is going on.

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