Page 46 of Control

I hate that he’s right. I hate that he can see through me like this. Like all my armor doesn’t mean a damn thing.

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not,” he says, his voice softening. “But I know what it’s like to have nothing except the things you can create. And I know what happens when you lose them.”

The air between us feels too heavy. I look down at the case in my hands, my fingers tracing the edge. The brushes are beautiful, perfect, and completely out of place in my messy, chaotic life.

“Thanks,” I mutter in a tone barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes—something guarded—as if he’s given me more than just a gift. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I want to say something else, something biting or sarcastic, but the words won’t come. So I just turn away, gripping the case tightly as if it might vanish if I let go.

As I walk to my room, I wonder if he’s right—if the only thing that’s keeping me sane is the thing I’ve been trying to abandon.

****

The next delivery isn’t a weapon. It’s a wardrobe. If you can even call it that.

I open the boxes to find dresses that shimmer in the light, the kind of heels that make walking feel like a sport, and jewelry so delicate that it feels like it might shatter if I breathe wrongly.

A note sits on top of it all.

Wear this to the party tonight. We leave at 6.

No “please.” No explanation. Just an order.

Adeline snorts when she sees me holding the note like it might bite. “Wow, your guy’s got the whole mobster romance cliché nailed down, huh?”

I glare at her. “He’s not my guy.”

“Sure. So all this is just some casual Wednesday thing?” She picks up a dress and holds it against herself. “This is worth more than my car.”

I shrug, even though my heart pounds like it’s running from something. “It’s a game, Adeline. That’s all.”

She gives me that look—the one that says she doesn’t buy it but doesn’t have the energy to fight me on it.

****

The party is held in one of those sprawling mansions that make you wonder who has this much money to waste. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling, their crystals scattering light like shattered glass, and the air smells like cigars and expensive perfume.

Remo’s hand stays on the small of my back, a constant reminder of whose date I am tonight.

“You clean up nice,” Marco says as we walk past. His tone is teasing, but there’s something sharp under it.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I reply without missing a beat.

Remo chuckles. “She’s got teeth, Marco. Be careful.”

The first glass of champagne goes down too easily. The second loosens the tightness in my chest. By the third, I don’t care that the eyes of half the room are on me, judging, assessing.

Remo disappears into a side room with a group of men whose faces are carved from stone. Business, I assume.

Which leaves me alone in a sea of silk and diamonds.

“Lost?” Livia appears at my side, holding a glass of red wine.

“Not even a little.”

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