Page 81 of Lord of the Dark

Mrs. Pierce detailed the room’s merits while Thompson nodded, jotting notes. Alessandro and I stood side by side, his proximity like live voltage in the air. Yet he didn’t move. Not a word, not a gesture. I fought the urge to look at him—and lost. From the corner of my eye, I watched him: arms crossed, gaze fixed ahead. The tension in his jaw, the absolute stillness of his posture, infuriated me. He was so close, yet oceans away.

"What is this?" I finally whispered, the words barely audible over the room’s sterile silence.

Alessandro turned slowly, his gaze impenetrable. A curtain had dropped between us, and I stood helpless on the other side.

"We’re working, Fiona," he said coolly, his voice smooth as polished stone. "Focus on what matters." The words landed like a slap. I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to flinch. He held my eyes for only a second before turning away—as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Mrs. Pierce led the group toward the exit, and I followed, adrift in a fog of hurt and doubt. Every instinct screamed to confront him, to force him to look at me, to stop treating me like I meant nothing. But this wasn’t the time.

At the estate’s grand entrance, the group paused beneath the mahogany doors. Palm leaves rustled in the warm breeze, the afternoon sun gilding the scene. Thompson turned to me, satisfaction in his smile.

"Ms. Robertson," he said, approval lacing his tone, "I’ve decided. We have a deal. It meets every expectation—and exceeds them."

Relief and triumph should have flooded me. Instead, I felt only hollow pain, mustering a strained smile. "That’s wonderful news, Mr. Thompson," I said, offering my hand.

"The pleasure was mine," he replied before addressing Mrs. Pierce. "Congratulations on such a competent colleague. Ms. Robertson’s work was exemplary."

Mrs. Pierce nodded proudly. "Fiona is one of our best. I’m glad she convinced you."

Thompson straightened, turning to Alessandro, who stood silent beside us. "Alessandro, handle the finalization. I want this closed as quickly as possible."

Alessandro acknowledged with a curt nod.

As the group moved toward the waiting cars, my pulse spiked. This was my chance. I had to speak to him—had to make him listen, even for a second.

"Mr. Russo," I said quickly before he could leave, my voice steadier than I felt. "Do you have a moment? There are a few final details to review."

He paused, turning with that controlled precision. His gaze met mine—dark, unreadable, so foreign it stole my breath.

"Now isn’t the time, Ms. Robertson," he replied evenly. Polite. Impenetrable. "I’m already late."

"It’ll only take a minute," I pressed, ignoring the pressure in my chest. "It’s important."

A near-imperceptible shake of his head, as if I were static to be tuned out. "Call my office if you have questions." Flawless courtesy, every word another cut. "My assistant will schedule you."

I swallowed. It was as if he were speaking to a stranger—not the woman he’d fucked in her bed just last night. "All right," I said softly, the words barely making it past my lips.

But inside, a bleeding wound had already split open. His polite tone was like a razorblade dragging over the same cut again and again. The cold distance in his words thickened the air around me, stifling, as if it were sucking the last strength from my lungs with every second. My throat tightened while my heart beat faster—not from excitement, but from a mix of pain and helpless rage.

How could he act like I was nothing? Like I was just anotheritem on his endless to-do list? The contrast to last night was so sharp it hurt almost physically. Just yesterday, he’d set me ablaze with his intensity, his gaze, his touch—and now I was nothing more than an inconvenient formality he wanted to politely shake off.

I felt my hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. "So that’s it?" I wanted to hurl at him. But the words lodged in my throat, swallowed by the fear of losing even more of myself.

My gaze drifted to his eyes, so cool and detached it made me shudder. He seemed utterly unaffected by what he was doing, while I felt like I was splintering into a thousand pieces. My thoughts raced, searching for an explanation, for any sign that he might still feel something—anything that could prove last night had been more than just a moment of weakness. But there was nothing. No hesitation, not a flicker of remorse.

I could have followed him, could have confronted him, could have demanded he explain why he was treating me like this. But I knew I’d only be slamming myself against the concrete wall he’d built around himself. He’d shut the door on me, and I stood on the other side, alone with all my questions and all my pain.

Instead, I forced myself to keep up the façade, even as my world crumbled beneath me. I swallowed again, fighting back the hot wave of fury and despair threatening to explode in my chest. A tremor ran through my fingers as I finally turned away—from him, from the piercing gaze that had nearly erased me.

"Of course," I said, though the words felt like shards in my mouth. "I’ll contact your office."

I walked away without looking back. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew I couldn’t bear it. The sight of him would break me completely, and I couldn’t afford that collapse. Not now. And especially not in front of him.

I slumped heavily into the car seat, hands gripping the smooth surface of the steering wheel, but I couldn’t steady them. Theytrembled, uncontrollably, as my eyes locked onto Alessandro. He stood there with the calm of a man nothing and no one could touch. The warm wind tugged at his shirt, but he didn’t move, speaking quietly to his driver, utterly indifferent to the scene around him.

I didn’t dare move. "Call my office if you have questions." Every muscle in my body seemed frozen, locked in this agonizing contrast between the intense closeness of the night before and the ice-cold distance he embodied now with every motion, every word, every glance. Yesterday, I’d felt closer to him than ever—as if he’d touched me in a way no one else ever could.

His driver opened the door, and Alessandro stepped into the black Bentley. No hurried movement, no glance back, no hint of anything that might suggest there had ever been meaning between us. He acted as if he’d forgotten me long ago. As if I’d have to question my sanity for ever believing there was more between us than business.

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