Page 29 of Twisted Promise

His voice had died with her silent plead.

He loved her like the last missing piece of the puzzle, and he faintly remembered how much he wanted to see her break apart completely.

Scattered with pieces slipping through his palms, some burning at the edges that would never become the perfect picture again—but he’d reassured her anxiety, fear, and cowardice that he would glue her back together.

Imperfect, scared, and weak.

He was the only one who would be there for her until death did them apart. His promise is in black, and her unwillingness is in white.

“Would you take her back if you could?”

Alessio stared into the camera. The small lens mirrored the side of Anya’s face, and his finger itched to trace her features.

“When she’s ready to come home,” he said.

“Or?” the interviewer hounded, just like the rapid firing of comments with the same word on the monitor.

His fans knew him to be volatile, impatient, and selfish. They didn’t consider him to be a considerate man, and neither did himself.

“Or I’ll bring her back myself.”

He heard Anya’s breath hitch.

Chapter Seven

__________

Anya

Whose idea was it to go live three times in one day?

Oh, right, the director and his over-the-top compensation. He had far too much money and the freedom to act spoiled rotten.

All the show’s participants had been live-streamed simultaneously. Viewers had complained about not having enough screens to watch everyone, but the director had merely pinned a comment suggesting they buy more devices.

Alessio had refused to do any more confessional interviews, which left Anya as the final participant. She didn’t mind, though; she thought it was a clever idea. The confessional felt like a mock therapy session and a chance to vent her feelings for free.

She’d been nervous at first, airing out her past for the world to judge, but as time went by, there was a sense of relief, almost like she had someone to talk to without giving her advice.

She didn’t want advice. She wanted someone to listen and then leave her alone.

Anya even found herself looking forward to the last live event as she sat at the dining table with the others.

Meryl would’ve called it team bonding if her husband wasn’t sitting in front of her like everything was fine and dandy.

He came a couple of days after the show began, but his arrival didn’t stir up the type of hype the director wanted. His presenceblended in with the environment, but he was extremely kind to everyone. It was hard to miss him when he walked into a room.

During dinner, Meryl avoided her husband’s pleading eyes, which she dubbed “egg-dropped-soup eyes” because they looked divine but offered no real sustenance.

Anya suppressed a laugh, not wanting to disturb the calm, almost romantic atmosphere.

“Has anyone seen my confessional?” Clara asked as she swallowed her food and swirled her red wine.

Anya looked down at her barely touched food to avoid her critical gaze. She didn’t watch anyone’s interview, but Meryl did out of sheer nosiness. Everything she knew about these people was from Meryl, even the proudly admitted psychological warfare all three in the trio used on each other in the name of love.

She didn’t understand, but they wouldn’t have her blessings if asked.

Cosmo, seated beside her, physically patted himself on the back. “Oh, people loved my interview. I got so many messages about how inspiring I was. Guess honesty is a lost art.”

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