Page 50 of Ruined By the Enemy
Dear god. I slept with Dom.
My stomach turns, twisting with panic and disbelief. I squeeze my eyes shut and press a hand to my forehead.
No, no, no. I shake my head vehemently, gripping the sheets until my knuckles turn bare.
I told myself I wouldn’t cross that line again. When I walked into that party last night, I repeated the promise like a mantra when I felt him watching me from across the room. His gaze was sharp and scorching, melting through the dress I had on.
There were tables between us, people gathering in groups, but it felt like he was right in front of me, undressing every stitch on my skin.
And I promised… until I got into the accident, and he felt like a lifeline, not a mistake waiting to happen.
I clamp a hand over my mouth as bile creeps up my throat. I stumble into the bathroom, flip the light on, and clutch the edge of the sink as I lean forward, chest heaving.
But nothing comes. Just the sound of my uneven breath and the tremble in my limbs.
My reflection is pale, shaken. My hair falls in waves around my face, wild and loose, like last night. The same way he would’ve seen it fall when—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You almost died,” I whisper aloud, voice cracking. “Nobody would blame you for seeking comfort. You were scared. That’s all this was.”
The lie sticks in my throat.
“It’s a pass, Sophie,” I tell myself again, louder this time. “A one-time slip. You don’t have to—” My voice gives out, bending under the weight of hysteria.
Because I know better. I didn’t sleep with Domenico Moretti because I was scared. I had sex with him because I wanted to.
I’d been thinking about it for so long that I gave in when I finally found an excuse. I could’ve pushed him away, but I didn’t.
It’s my fault.
A low groan of shame peels past my lips as I drag my fingers over my face. Gritting my teeth, I face my reflection again.
“The first step towards resolution is acceptance,” I murmur. The words barely make sense, but sleeping with my boss andtheenemy doesn’t make more sense either.
Last time, I pretended like it didn’t happen. Perhaps that’s why I slept with him again. It had to be a mental need for closure.
A simple conversation about how it shouldn’t happen again should fix things.
***
I chicken out.
The second I step out of the bathroom, my pep talk flies out the window, and I go for my clothes instead, slipping hurriedly into a dress with a broken zipper.
My clutch slips from its position under my arm as I grab my heels with my other hand, tiptoeing to the door.
My car.
“Wait,” I pause by the door, shaking my head. “Where’s my car?”
The car accident.
Of course. An ambulance took me to the hospital from the wreck, so I have no idea where I have no idea where it ended up. I vaguely remember Dom and Raffaele talking about it, something about a tow truck and damage reports, but I was too dazed to care.
Now I care.
Because I can’t walk out of here looking like this and wait for someone to explain why I’m barefoot, holding up my dress like it’s onewrongmove from a wardrobe malfunction.
