Page 112 of Hate Mates

I dress slowly, listening to the silence of the house, expecting to hear her soft movements somewhere beyond the door. I don’t know why I listen for her. I don’t care.

I’ve never cared. Maybe once. But that was a long time ago.

By the time I make my way downstairs, she’s already seated at the breakfast table, perfectly composed, sipping coffee from a delicate cup.

The deep green dress she wears cinches at her waist, the fabric soft but structured, modest yet designed to tease with the way it skims over her curves. The high neckline does nothing to hide the elegance of her collarbone, her hair styled up to show the sleek column of her neck.

The slight tilt of her chin a quiet act of defiance. Her back is straight, her expression unreadable, her mouth neither tight with resentment nor soft with submission. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe last night never happened.

She looks up, her gaze skimming over me with polite detachment. “Good morning, Vincenzo.”

My fingers tighten around the back of the chair, but I say nothing, lowering myself into the seat across from her.

A servant appears instantly to pour my coffee. Ottavia watches the steam curl, then calmly turns back to her plate, cutting into her fruit with slow, deliberate movements.

Not a flicker of tension. Not a crack in her perfect mask.

She’s playing a game, and I don’t like it. If anyone gets to play a game, it’s me. It’s always me.

I set my cup down, the porcelain clicking against the saucer. “You look pretty today.”

“Thank you. If you like the color, I’ll call the boutique and ask them to deliver more dresses in the same shade.”

I cock a brow.

I humiliated her last night, yet she sits here like nothing happened, poised and indifferent, as if I’m no more consequential than the coffee she sips.

“I’m not particularly fond of that color,” I say, swirling the liquid in my cup before taking a slow sip, watching her for any reaction. “Perhaps black. It’ll be fitting since you’re mourning the life you thought you’d have.”

“Black it is, then.” She cuts into a piece of cantaloupe with the same detached precision she seems to wield against me, her gaze never lifting, as if I am an afterthought, a shadow at the edge of her world.

My jaw tightens. “I expected you to sulk.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Why? Because I didn’t enjoy my wedding night?”

The words are a slap. She delivers them smoothly, without venom, without emotion, without giving me anything I can grasp. And that infuriates me more than if she had spat them at my feet.

I lean back in my chair, watching her. Studying her.

“I expected…something,” I murmur, letting my gaze roam lazily over her, testing, pushing. “Tears, anger, defiance. But you’re sitting here like a wife who has accepted her place.”

She meets my eyes without hesitation. “Have I?”

My hand moves before I think, reaching across the table, fingers curling around her wrist. Her pulse is steady beneath my thumb, unfazed by my grip. “Do not fuck with me, Ottavia.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I hurt your feelings last night.”

She scoffs. “You’d have to matter to me for you to hurt my feelings.” Her head tilts slightly. “And you don’t.”

My grip around her wrist tightens, but she still doesn’t flinch.

Her eyes hold a silent but powerful challenge, stirring up a surge of hate and excitement within me. It’s an exhilarating feeling. Something I find myself wanting to chase.

I release her wrist, sitting back. “Maybe black isn’t your color after all.”

“And maybe you overestimate your ability to affect me.”

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