Page 33 of Porcelain Lies

Thank fuck.

Blessed silence fills my office, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning.

I lean back in my leather chair, loosening my tie, then grab the stack of papers from my desk. Numbers and codes blur together — Pakistani arms dealers, shipping routes, security protocols. The Bratva doesn’t run itself.

And I don’t have time for Sofia and her theatrics.

Or memories of deep green eyes, silken hair, or skin like satin.

I have bigger things to worry about.

Chapter Ten

Stella

My thumb grazes over Gianni’s contact photo one last time.

No new messages since the revelation. Of course, not. The woman’s voice echoes in my head: “Leave my boyfriend alone.”

“Enough.” I delete his number with a sharp jab, then grab my car keys from the counter. The metal bites into my palm as I squeeze them.

“Going somewhere?” Hannah peers over her coffee mug.

“To get answers.” I straighten my spine, channeling the strength Boyana always tells me I have. “And my things from his apartment.”

The drive to Gianni’s Bel Air penthouse feels different today. The familiar palm-lined streets that once represented my future now mock me with their pristine perfection. My engagement ring sits heavy in my purse — I still can’t stand to look at it, let alone consider putting it on.

Traffic crawls on Sunset, giving my mind time to catalog all the little warning signs.

“You knew,” I mutter to myself — to Boyana. “You tried to warn me something was off.”

My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I turn onto his street. The security guard recognizes my car, waving me through without question. Probably the last time that will happen.

I park in my usual spot, but instead of the flutter of excitement I used to feel arriving here, there’s only cold determination.

Time to face whatever’s waiting inside.

A flash of movement catches my eye as I kill the engine. A woman emerges from the building’s glass doors, her designer heels clicking against the pavement. Tall, model-thin, wearing what looks like Prada. The kind of effortless beauty that makes other women feel invisible. For some reason, my eyes lock onto her, and even without being told, I already know. It’s her.

“I bet that’s her.” The words escape in a whisper. Not to myself, but to Boyana. She’s always present in moments like these, when my world tilts sideways.

The woman fumbles in her clutch, probably searching for her phone to call a ride. Her dark hair brushes over bare shoulders, catching the morning sun. Everything about her screams wealth and privilege — from her perfectly sleek bob to the red-soled Louboutins.

My eyes track upward, following the line of the building to the penthouse windows. Gianni’s probably up there right now, maybe watching her leave. Did he make her breakfast? Pour her coffee in the mug I bought him in Little Italy?

Movement behind the glass catches my attention — a silhouette passing by the window. Male. Tall. My chest constricts as I recognize Gianni’s familiar stride.

I sink lower in my seat, grateful for my car’s tinted windows. The woman’s finally managed to get her phone out, speaking rapidly into it while pacing near the entrance.

My heart stops as Gianni appears on his balcony wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his tanned chest bare in the morning sun. He leans over the railing, waving down at her with that signature smirk I once thought was charming.

“Have a good day,bella!” His voice carries clearly across the courtyard.

She blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it. The same stupid gesture he used to do with me.

My vision blurs red as I watch this intimate scene play out. They’re not even trying to be discrete. How many times has she been here? How many mornings did they share while I planned our wedding?

“Fucker!” I spit. The word tastes good on my tongue, matching the fury building in my chest.

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