Page 27 of Twisted Addiction
I glared at him, my sandwich now golden and crisp.
“What?” I demanded, my tone rising.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“If you have something to say, say it.” I said, my voice dripping with a jovial cruelty, a spark of defiance flaring as I plated my sandwich and poured the espresso, the rich aroma grounding me.
“You really believe all he feels for you is hate?” he said, picking up a tray with the risotto, a glass of water, and a neatly folded napkin.
I scoffed, cutting my sandwich with a knife, the blade flashing under the light. “Believe? I’ve lived it. You don’t need eyes to feel hate burn through a room.”
He smirked again, a secretive edge to it, and walked out with the tray balanced expertly in his hands.
I stared after him, wondering what he was insinuating.
Did he think there was more to Dmitri’s cold exterior? The idea was laughable, but it lingered, a thorn in my thoughts.
I finished preparing my meal—a steaming cup of espresso and the grilled cheese, its spicy mustard bite exactly what I needed—and was about to head to the living room when Giovanni reappeared.
“I can carry that for you—wherever you’d like to eat,” he offered, his tone too polite, too accommodating.
“I have hands,” I said, gripping the tray tightly. “If I can cook, I can carry it. I’m not porcelain.”
He smirked again, stepping closer. “I broke protocol by letting you near that stove. The boss won’t like it.
I only allowed it because I can’t cook for both of you at once. But... let me, Penelope.”
I clenched my jaw, anger flaring.
“No.” I tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of me, his expression shifting from polite to insistent.
“Let me,” he said, no longer asking, his hands already reaching for the tray.
Before I could protest further, he took it with a practiced ease, leaving me no choice.
I sighed, relenting. “Fine. After you.”
He carried the tray like a seasoned waiter, leading me out of the kitchen.
We passed through the grand dining room, where Dmitri sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his risotto before him, his posture regal, like a king presiding over his court.
I averted my gaze, pretending I hadn’t stolen a glance at him from the corner of my eye, and kept walking toward the living room.
“Ma’am,” Giovanni called, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned to see him placing my tray on the table—directly opposite Dmitri’s seat.
My stomach twisted. “That’s not where I want to eat,” I said, my voice tight.
“That’s where the boss wants you to eat,” Giovanni replied matter-of-factly, then turned and hurried away before I could argue.
So that was the plan.
He hadn’t offered to carry my tray out of kindness; he’d been herding me to Dmitri’s side, forcing me into this unwanted proximity.
Rage simmered beneath my skin, but I plastered a defiant smirk across my face.
“I despise this butler,” I said, letting the words roll off my tongue like a challenge. “Can you replace him?”
