Page 52 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Now, after a little self-care, I’m curled in bed with a soft blanket draped over my legs and pillows propped behind my back.
My hair is twisted up in a towel, a sheet mask cool against my face. A cup of tea waits on the bedside table, sending up a thin curl of steam into the quiet.
The television hums in the background while my needles click together, the steady rhythm soothing the noise in my head.
The girls always used to tease me for this habit, calling me an old lady for preferring an evening with wool and needles to a night out.
Yet every winter they wrap themselves in the hats, scarves and gloves I’ve made, declaring them stylish and wonderfully warm, as though they hadn’t mocked me for knitting in the first place.
I’ve turned out socks and jumpers as well. To me, it’s quite straightforward, if I knit for you, it means you matter.
And if I’ve known you long enough and you don’t even own a mismatched pair of socks from me, well—that says everything one needs to know.
I do rather wish for another glass of wine instead of this tea, but I’ve already had one before the party. A second would tip the balance, and with my condition I know my body too well to take the risk.
When it’s time, I peel off the mask, dry my hair, smooth a little lip balm across my mouth, and put the knitting neatly away.
I switch off the lights and slip beneath the covers, the soft flicker of the television casting faint light across the room.
I try to turn my thoughts anywhere but him, the man with the midnight blue eyes.
And at some point, without even noticing, sleep finally claims me.
***
I wake with a violent start, my heart thudding against my ribs. The clock on my nightstand reads five.
I fall back against the pillow, pressing the heel of my hand to my eyes. My skin is slick with sweat, my sheets tangled fromanother restless night—another nightmare that slips through my grasp the moment I reach for it.
Each attempt to remember sends a searing ache through my skull, intense enough to make me nauseous.
I want my memories back, desperately, pathetically so. And yet, a part of me hopes they never return.
Because the thought of what I might uncover… it terrifies me.
I stay in bed a while longer, thumbing idly through social media, letting the familiar noise fill the silence.
Until a picture fills my screen.
In it, it’s me. Me and Arlo.
My stomach sinks as I scroll further, realising it’s everywhere, reposted across dozens of accounts.
The original source isn’t hard to find. St. Monarche´’s gossip page.
The caption reads:Which member of the Ferrum Syndicate has Ophelia Bellanti so neatly ensnared? And does he have the faintest idea what he’s gotten himself into with this one?
Now it’s everywhere, splashed across society pages and the kind of glossy online columns that thrive on speculation.
Each post has its own ridiculous caption:Who’s the man seen with Ophelia Bellanti?
She looks utterly smitten, could there be wedding bells?
I exhale in frustration, sinking further into the pillow, already knowing father will be livid once it reaches him, and no doubt, it already has.
I’m not supposed to be seen with any man. I’m meant to be the dutiful Italian daughter, pure, waiting for marriage and a wedding night that marks my first.
And it won’t just be father who’s seen the picture. His allies will. His rivals too.
