Page 138 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
“Merry Christmas, mamma,” I whisper, hugging her back.
I know she wanted to visit me in the hospital, but father wouldn’t allow it. He even took her phone so she couldn’t call. It was cruel, but not surprising, that’s just him.
Later, though, something must have changed. He gave the phone back, and the night Arlo left the hospital, she rang me. We talked for hours, cried even longer, and for the first time in years, it felt like I had her back.
Now she’s crying again, quietly, against my shoulder.
“Stop,” I say softly, laughing a little. “You’ll make me cry, and we’ll both ruin our makeup.”
She pulls back, dabbing at her eyes before shaking her head. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t help it.”
I smile faintly, and she takes my hand. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
We walk together down the long marble corridor toward the dining room. The closer we get, the louder the voices become.
My chest tightens. I don’t know who’s here tonight, but I just pray it isn’t that dreadful man my father arranged for me to marry. He promised I’d be allowed to finish my studies at St. Monarche´ before any of that, and I intend to hold him to it. I still have months left before graduation, and I won’t let him take that from me.
As we approach the open doorway, my heartbeat quickens.
And then I step inside.
All conversation stops.
The room is filled with familiar faces, family, relatives, a few of my father’s associates, but my eyes go straight to him.
Arlo.
Those same midnight blue eyes lock onto mine, and the rest of the room disappears. He looks devastating, impossibly collected in a tailored black suit, but there’s something in his gaze that burns. It’s hunger, grief, longing, all tangled together.
I force myself to breathe, to smile, to be civilised.
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I say softly, my tone even, my mask firmly in place.
My gaze moves around the room. Octavia stands near the fireplace, smirking as if she knows something I don’t. My mother is beside me, still dabbing at her eyes.
Beside Arlo stands a man who could only be his father, they look so alike it throws me for a moment.
There are others too, some of my father’s business associates, cousins, a few distant uncles. But I can’t focus on any of them.
Because I still don’t understand what Arlo is doing here. In my father’s estate. On Christmas night.
Luigi Bellanti steps forward, his arms open in greeting. “Ophelia,” he says, smiling widely. “Merry Christmas, dear.”
He leans in for a hug, but I take a small step back.
His expression darkens, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that same controlled smile.
I study him carefully, suspicion stirring somewhere deep in me. This isn’t him. He’s too calm, too accommodating.
Something’s off.
He should be scowling at me for being late, quietly threatening me with something no one else would hear.
He glances around the room, his gaze landing on Arlo before coming back to me.
“Ophelia,” he says smoothly, raising a champagne flute a servant has just placed in his hand, “we have very special guests tonight. Your fiancé and his father are joining us for Christmas. The first of many to come.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts his glass in a small toast before taking a sip.
