Page 31 of Twisted Addiction
His indifference shattered me, confirming what I’d always feared—he hated me, even if his possessiveness bound me to him like chains.
I looked away, my eyes stinging with unshed tears, my heart splintering as I tried to hold myself together.
His hand caught my chin, forcing my face toward him, but I kept my gaze averted, unable to meet those piercing blue eyes.
I wanted—needed—an explanation, some reason for his absence, for the silence that had left me drowning in loneliness.
Was it truly his punishment, as those cruel texts had implied?
The question burned, but I couldn’t voice it, not when his touch already felt like a cage.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and insistent.
I tried to wrench my face away, but his grip tightened, pinning my chin with unrelenting strength.
“Penelope.” Each syllable cracked like a whip. “Look. At. Me.”
“Stop—stop saying my name like it still means something to you!” I snapped, my voice breaking as hot tears streaked my cheeks.
My words came out like shrapnel. “Go on—keep punishing me. That’s what you do best.”
My chest heaved, every word scraping my throat raw. “Fake-cheating on me. Disappearing for months after taking my virginity. What’s next, Dmitri?”
My voice dropped to a venomous hiss, trembling but sharp. “What new kind of hell do you have planned for me?”
His eyes bore into mine, unyielding, and for a moment, I thought he’d offer some defense, some shred of remorse.
Instead, he sidestepped my pain entirely. “You will abort this child,” he said, his tone flat, final.
I let out a disbelieving laugh, the sound jagged. “What?”
I shoved against him, trying to push him away, but he stood like a monolith, immovable. “I made it clear—I’m not aborting my child.”
“It’s not a child yet,” he countered, his voice edged with a clinical precision that chilled me. “It’s an embryo, Penelope,and it’s putting your life at risk. The doctor was clear: the subchorionic hematoma and your bicornuate uterus make this pregnancy unsustainable. I won’t let you die for a cluster of cells. No. Absolutely not for this.”
“Bold of you,” I spat, “to pretend my life matters more to you than it does to me. Bolder still to believe you have any right to decide what happens to my child. You don’t get to play protector after you’ve already ruined me. “
“Again, it’s not a child yet,” he said, finally stepping back, giving me a sliver of space. “Let me make it clear since the doctor didn’t: if you continue this pregnancy, your body can’t sustain it. You will die, Penelope. And it’s not just your ‘child’—it’s mine too. We both have a say.”
“No—you don’t get a say,” I snapped, fury rising in my throat. “You didn’t hold your stomach at night, wondering if the baby was still alive. You didn’t feel the fear clawing through my ribs.”
“It’s still my blood in his veins. Whether you like it or not, Penelope, that gives me a say,” he said, his gaze unwavering, a flicker of something raw breaking through his stoic facade.
I pushed off the table, my legs unsteady but my resolve ironclad.
“I’m not aborting my child,” I said, each word deliberate, a blade sliding between us. “And unless you plan to drag me to an operating table yourself, we’re done here.”
My breath hitched, but I forced my chin high. “I’m tired, Dmitri. I need rest.”
I turned, waiting for his inevitable command—Stop. Come back. Don’t you dare walk away from me.
But nothing came. Only silence. Heavy, suffocating.
I could feel him behind me like a storm you know is about to break.
I climbed the stairs to the mansion’s rooftop balcony, seeking solace in the open air.
The night was cool, the distant crash of waves against Lake Como’s shore a faint lullaby.
