⚘☙⚘
Two weeks ago
I don't know when I fell asleep, but when I wake up the next morning, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, I know I've gotten the best sleep of my life.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, my body deliciously sore in all the right places. My head is pounding—courtesy of last night's tequila—and I feel overstimulated, like my nerve endings are still buzzing from Dante's touch.
But I'm in a great mood.
Better than great, actually. I feel alive.
I stretch, the silk sheets sliding against my bare skin, and reach for my phone on the nightstand. My black clutch is there too, placed neatly beside it.
My chest warms. He was thoughtful enough to bring my things up from the car.
See? Not all men are trash.
The thought barely forms before my ringtone shatters the peaceful silence like a sledgehammer through glass.
I grab my phone, squinting at the screen. Amy.
Of course.
I answer, putting the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Fucking hell, Eva."
I wince. Her voice is a battering ram against my fragile, hungover brain.
"Too loud," I groan, pressing my free hand to my temple. "Way too loud."
"Oh, this is fucking loud, Eva? Is this loud?!" Her voice climbs with every word, sharp enough to shatter glass. "I've been trying to get through to you all damn night! Are you alright?"
I close my eyes and thank God she's not physically next to me right now, because I would absolutely commit murder and feel zero remorse.
"You know," I say slowly, "I'm so close to actually putting work into finding a way to kill someone through a phone."
"I'm honored I could help your inhibitions," she snaps back. "Now, where the fuck are you?"
I pause. She's not playing along. She didn't call me "Scientist Idiot" like she usually does when I threaten her life. She's genuinely worried.
Guilt pricks at me.
"I have no idea," I admit, glancing around the hotel suite. "But I'll be at your place eventually. Whenever I can deal with this hangover."
"You better," she says, and the line goes dead.
Bye to you too, Amelia.
I sigh, dropping my phone back onto the nightstand. Time to get up, find my dress, and do the walk of shame back to—
Wait.
My gaze snags on something beside my clutch.
Green paper. Crisp. Folded neatly.
Money.
My stomach drops.
I sit up, the sheet pooling around my waist, and reach for the bills. There are several of them. Hundred-dollar bills, to be exact.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Heat floods my face—not the good kind from last night, but the humiliating, rage-inducing kind.
He left me money.
Like I'm some sort of—what? A sex worker he picked up and paid for services rendered?
I stare at the cash in my hand, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
This was supposed to be my night. My choice. My way of taking control and starting fresh. I was the one who was supposed to use him and walk away feeling powerful.
And he turned it into a fucking transaction.
I feel used. Cheap. Like I'm right back in that house with the Sinclairs, being reduced to something less than human.
And I hate it.
I hate him for making me feel this way.
I crumple the bills in my fist and throw them across the room.
"Asshole," I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed.
I find my red dress in a heap on the floor, wrinkled and slightly damp from—God, I don't even want to think about it. I pull it on, not bothering with my underwear because I have no idea where the hell those ended up.
My heels are by the door. I grab them, my clutch, and my phone, and I get the hell out of that suite as fast as my shaky legs will carry me.
⚘☙⚘
It takes me fifty minutes to remember that Google Maps exists.
And another ten to remember how to actually use it.
But eventually, I manage to request an Uber, and by 1:45PM, I'm standing outside Amy's apartment building, looking like I've been dragged through a hedge backward.
My hair is a disaster—I tried to smooth it down with water in the hotel bathroom, but that just made it worse. Now it's half-dry and sticking up in every direction.
My dress is wrinkled and stained, and I'm pretty sure I'm still wearing last night's makeup, which has now migrated to somewhere around my jawline.
I look homeless.
But at least my hangover has downgraded from "kill me now" to "mildly unbearable."
I'm about to knock when the door swings open.
And I come face-to-face with a man.
A gorgeous man.
We both freeze.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with green eyes so striking they look almost unnatural. There's a roguish quality to him—something dangerous and charming all at once. His black button-up is open at the collar, revealing the edge of intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric.
He looks like trouble.
And I look like a disaster.
He recovers first, a slow smile spreading across his face as he extends a hand. "Hey. I'm Enzo Vitale."
There's an accent underneath his words—Italian, if I had to guess.
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and shake his hand. "Eva Sinclair. Nice to meet you, Enzo."
"The pleasure is definitely mine, Eva." His grip is firm, warm. He releases my hand and pulls a black business card from his pocket, holding it out to me. "I was, unfortunately, on my way out. But do call me when you can."
I take the card, too surprised to do anything else.
He flashes me another smile—wider this time, genuinely charming—and then he's gone, slipping past me and disappearing down the hallway.
I stand there for a moment, blinking at the empty space he left behind.
What the hell just happened?
I shake my head, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind me. I kick off my heels at the entrance and lock the deadbolt—two things Amy would kill me for forgetting.
When I walk into the living room, Amy is sprawled on the couch in her usual sleep outfit: tiny shorts and a tank top. But her eyes are wide and jittery, practically vibrating with excitement.
She hasn't slept. And not because she was worried about me.
She takes one look at my disheveled state and opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
"Enzo Vitale, huh?" I say, exaggerating a terrible Italian accent.
Amy groans, throwing her head back dramatically before leveling me with a look. "Fuck me, I think I want a second one-night stand with that sexy man."
I raise an eyebrow. Amy never wants a repeat. She's a one-and-done kind of girl. Always has been.
She must really like this guy.
"Congrats to you, hun," I say, smirking. "I'm sure he'd want that too."
I glance down at the card in my hand.
It's high-quality—thick, matte black, with a single word embossed in gold at the center.
Romano.
My breath catches.
I flip the card over.
Enzo Vitale – Chief Operating Officer
And beneath that, his phone number.
Romano.
The Romano luxury brand. The biggest name in high-end fashion. Untouchable. Exclusive. The kind of company people like Alex would kill to work for.
And he tried. He went to an interview once, a few years ago, and bombed it so spectacularly that he was a wreck for an entire week.
It was glorious.
An idea begins to form in my mind—slow at first, then sharper, clearer.
What if I called Enzo? What if I applied for a job at Romano?
I could rub it in Alex's face. Show him that I'm not the broken, pathetic girl he left behind. Show all of them.
The Sinclairs wanted connections to Romano so badly they tried to marry Evelyn off to the mysterious CEO when he took over five years ago. They wanted power, status, a foothold in that world.
And they failed.
But I could succeed.
I could walk into that building, get a job, and become everything they never thought I could be.
The thought makes me smile—a real, genuine smile—for the first time since the wedding announcement.