Page 19 of Marriage of Revenge

“This isn’t the time,” he snarls.

"Women," I shoot back, channeling every bratty debutante I've ever met. "We have our needs. First, you try peeing in a thousand layers of tulle. And then you try those stupid extension."

He grunts, clearly unimpressed by my performance, but mercifully doesn't press further.

Instead, he watches me, and leans forward, his breath way too close to my skin. “I could hold on to those curls while I…”

“While you what? You know better than that, Georgio. My dad won’t sell me to you. You’ve got nothing.” It’s my turn to snarl. Make him feel little, too. But Georgio laughs.

“Oh, depending on wins that auction, I might get to have some fun, too.”

What does that mean?

I shake my head, strolling out, ignoring him even as the weight of what I’ve witnessed

sits in my stomach like bad medicine. Whatever dreams of reconciliation I kept hidden in the corner of my heart, whatever fairytale I'd spun about this auction, whatever hope that Antonio was here to save me... they've all gone up in flames.

Just like he did. Just like we did.

At least Naomi must be okay. She has to be okay.

This was another cruel choreography.

Paola lied.

And in this world of monsters wearing familiar faces, I can't trust anyone. Not even the girl in the mirror who thought she could win this dance.

CHAPTER 9—ANTONIO

Paola is pinned againstthe wall, her dress shoved up around her waist, her body arching under my grip as she falls apart for the second time, her moans bouncing off the marble walls. But it’s all background noise. None of it registers. My mind is trapped elsewhere—onher. Isabella.

Fuck. Minutes ago, she stood in that corridor, watching us. Her honeysuckle scent making me harder.

What was she thinking as her mouth gaped open? Did she wonder how I’m going to feel bury deep inside her?

She is wrapped up like some sacrifice in that goddamn blue tulle dress. All dolled up for the auction, where men will fight over her, thinking they have any right to touch her.

My fingers dig harder into Paola’s hips, anger burning through me. The image of Isabella, beautiful and defiant, claws at my insides.

I want to march out and rip that fucking dress off her, tear away every layer until she’s bare, until she knows she belongs tome and no one else. Hell, I’d fuck her right in that auction room, in front of everyone, to prove no one else can have her.

But the thought twists dark and deadly—because I’d slaughter any bastard who dared to watch.

Paola shudders around me, her voice breaking as she moans my name. She’s trying to draw me back to her, desperate for connection. But she’s nothing more than a distraction. A weak stand-in for the fire that’s consuming me.

I move mechanically, chasing a release that won’t come, no matter how many times Paola falls apart beneath me. Every touch feels wrong. Every thrust emptier than the last. “Antonio,” she whispers, her voice breathless and unsure. Her fingers trace my shoulders, trying to ground me, but I feel nothing. The need that’s ripping through me isn’t for her. It never has been.

I pull back, without my own release, the emptiness in my chest spreading. Her touch is wrong, her scent cloying, and my rage simmers dangerously close to the surface. Paola looks up at me, eyes wide and questioning. “Are you… okay?” she asks, biting her lip, probably sensing that she was never more than a body to use. She tries to reach out to touch my hand but I shake my head.

Paola doesn’t insist. Three years ago, I saved her from being beaten every single night. Even if her sister didn’t make it. She’s grateful. And loyal.

“Fine,” I snap, stepping away, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Buttoning up my crisp navy shirt, adjusting my cuffs, I almost smile… because Isabella must have realized—if she hadn’t already—that she can’t trust anyone.

And she can’t.

As I’m readying myself to face the crowd, the auction, and all the devils awaiting in that grand ballroom, I tell myself that revenge will be sweet.

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