The Kiss Thief by L.J. Shen

TWO DAYS OF NOTHINGNESS TICKED by, soaking like blood on the walls of my room.

I refused to communicate with anyone. Even the in-desperate-need-for-love garden was left unattended, including the plants and vegetables I’d potted after Mama paid me a visit the day after Wolfe took me. She snuck seeds of begonias in the wooden box. “The most resilient flowers, Francesca. Just like you.” Then Ms. Sterling caught up with my hobby and brought me some radishes, carrot, and cherry tomato seeds, trying to lift my mood and perhaps encourage me to expend some energy and consume something more than tap water.

Sleep was short, tormented, and interrupted with a nightmare: a monster prowling in the shadows behind my bedroom door, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin every time I looked its way. The monster’s eyes were mesmerizing, but his smile was frightening. And when I tried to wake up, to unchain myself from the dream, my body was paralyzed to the mattress.

There were two things I wanted desperately—for Wolfe to understand we couldn’t get married and for Angelo to realize that the kiss was a misunderstanding.

Ms. Sterling brought food, water, and coffee to my bed every few hours, leaving silver trays filled with goodness on my nightstand. I drank the water to keep myself from fainting, but the rest remained untouched.

I especially ignored the huge basket of chocolate my future husband had sent to me. It sat in the corner of the room on the fancy desk, collecting dust. Even though the low sugar in my blood made white dots explode in my vision every time I made a sudden move, I still somehow knew that the expensive chocolate would taste of my own surrender. A flavor so bitter, no sugar could sweeten it.

Then there were the notes. The cursed, exasperating notes.

I’d opened two out of the three, and both pointed at Wolfe as the love of my life.

I tried to tell myself that it was clearly coincidental. Keaton might have had a change of heart. Perhaps he decided to worm his way into my good graces with gifts. Though something told me that man had not taken one uncalculated step in his life from the moment he took his first breath.

Wolfe demanded my presence at dinner every day. Never in person, though, but through Ms. Sterling. I continuously refused. When he sent one of his bodyguards for me, I locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out until Ms. Sterling physically kicked the burly man away. When Wolfe stopped sending food—something that made Ms. Sterling raise her voice to piercing levels in the kitchen even though he didn’t budge—I laughed maniacally because I wasn’t eating anyway. Finally, on the third day, Keaton graced me with his regal presence, standing at my doorway with his eyes narrowed to slits of cold menace.

Wolfe looked taller and gruffer than I remembered. Clad in a sharp bright navy suit, he was armed with a sardonic smirk that showed no trace of happiness. Light amusement danced across his otherwise dark eyes. Couldn’t blame him. I was starving to death here, trying to prove a point he couldn’t care less about. But I had no choice. I didn’t have my cell phone, and though Mama had called the landline each day to make sure I was okay, I knew by the shallow and even breaths in my ear that Ms. Sterling was listening to our conversations. Even though she cared about my physical well-being, my guess was she was still Team Wolfe all the way.

The pleas, the plans, and the promises to be good—to be the greatest daughter in Chicago—if my parents demanded I return sat on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ask about Angelo and if Dad was doing anything to try to get me back, but all I did was answer her worried questions with yes and no.

I pretended to smooth the fabric of my blanket over me and stare at my legs as I ignored him.

“Nemesis,” he drawled with lazy cynicism that somehow—somehow—still managed to stab somewhere deep inside me. “Care to wrap your bones in something a little more dignified than pajamas? We’re going out tonight.”

“You are going out tonight. Unless you’re taking me back to my parents’, I’m staying here,” I corrected.

“Whatever possesses you to think this outing is optional?” He braced the top of the doorframe with his arms, his dress shirt riding up and revealing muscular abs, dusted with dark hair.

He was such a man, and that threw me off. I was still in that tattered seam between a woman and a teenager, neither here nor there. I hated all the leverage he had on me.

“I’ll run away,” I threatened idly. Where would I go? I knew my father would send me right back to Wolfe’s arms. He knew that, too. This was my glorified prison. Silky sheets and a senator as my future husband. Pretty lies and devastating truths.

“With what energy, exactly? You can barely crawl, let alone run. Wear the dark green dress. The one with the slit.”

“So I can impress your perverted old politician friends?” I huffed, tossing my hair behind my shoulder.

“So you can impress your dramatically underwhelmed future husband.”

“Not interested, thank you.”

“Your parents will be there.”

That made me perk up in an instant—another thing I hated. He had all the power. All the information. The bigger picture.

“Where are you going?”

“Preston Bishop’s son is getting married. A pony-looking thing with a pair of nice legs.” He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the foot of my bed.

I remembered how he’d referred to Bishop’s wife as ‘horsey’. He was conceited and rude, arrogant and vulgar beyond belief, but only indoors. I’d seen him at the masquerade. And while standoffish and rude to my father and me, he was an impeccable gentleman to everyone else.

“It would be a good opportunity to introduce you as the future Mrs. Keaton. Which reminds me…” He produced something from his front pocket, tossing the square, black, and velvety thing across the length of the room. I caught it in my hands and snapped it open. An engagement ring with a Winston Blue diamond the size of my head twinkled inside it, catching every ray of sunshine slipping through the bare windows. I knew every minute in this house brought me closer to marriage with Wolfe Keaton, and escaping wasn’t possible. The only man to save me from my future husband was, quite frankly, my future husband. Begging him to give me up wasn’t an option. Maybe making him see that he didn’t want to marry me was a tactic I needed to explore.

“When are we leaving?” I asked. The “you” turned into a “we,” but he still didn’t look pleased.

I will embarrass you beyond belief.

“Couple of hours. It is my understanding that you’re used to being pampered and catered to, so Sterling will get you ready.”

You will regret the day your filthy eyes met mine across the table.

“Take that back,” I said.

“Excuse you?”

“Take that dig back. Stop holding my upbringing and the way I’ve been brought up against me,” I demanded.

He smirked, then turned to leave.

“I’m not going.” I tossed the engagement ring across the room. Though he could have caught it in his hand, he chose not to, letting it drop on the floor. Fighting for something—least of all for me—was beneath him.

“You are unless you want your phone privileges taken. The landline could be cut off. Not to mention, I’d hate to be forced to pierce your pretty veins to hook you up to a feeding tube,” he said, drifting out of the room before pausing at the door. His back was still to me when it began to vibrate with soft laughter.

“You will also have your engagement ring on at all times.”

“Or what?” I challenged, my voice shaking.

“Or I’m taking you to elope in Vegas, setting off a chain reaction of pregnancy rumors that will not do your family any good.”

I sucked in a breath, realizing for the first time what we were.

A story of a Nemesis and a Villain with no chance at a happy ending.

Where the prince doesn’t save the princess.

He tortures her.

And the beauty doesn’t sleep.

She’s stuck.

In a nightmare.

Three hours later, we walked through the doors of a ballroom situated at the Madison, one of the glitziest hotels in Chicago. With a cool wind, the twinkling buildings of the Magnificent Mile and the red Michigan Avenue Bridge reminded me that I was still in my favorite city, breathing hope into my body.

I wore an off-the-shoulder blue Armani gown that highlighted my eyes and had my hair twisted in a Dutch braid.

Ms. Sterling practically squeaked when she did my hair and makeup, reminding me just how much I missed Clara. Home was just across town, but it felt like oceans away. Things I loved and lived for—my parents, my garden, horseback riding—were untouchable. A distant memory that grew an inch farther away every second of the day.

With his dazzling all-black suit, my fiancé put a possessive hand on the small of my back and led me through the entrance of the reception area. Crystal chandeliers and curved stairways greeted us. The room was hued milk and honey, the marble floor a checked black and white. We hadn’t been invited to the ceremony at the Bishop’s local church and spent the drive here in a silence that shredded my nerves. Senator Keaton hardly shared the sentiment. In fact, he answered emails on his phone, barked orders to his young driver, Smithy, and pretended I wasn’t there.

The only attention he did give me was when he noted, “That’s not the dress I told you to wear.”

“Would you be surprised to hear I have a mind of my own?” I stared out my window as the vehicle slowed through Chicago’s downtown traffic. “After all, I’m nothing but a sheltered teenager.”

“And a disobedient one, too,” he said.

“A terrible bride,” I concluded.

“I can tame a dozen of you before breakfast.”

The minute we sauntered through the glitzy wide doors, people began to swarm around Wolfe as though he was the groom himself. He drew me close to him by the waist, making a jolt of heat travel down my belly as he smiled and made polite conversation with his admirers. His personality outside the walls of his house or his car was completely different, his charm turned up to an eleven. With his two bodyguards huddling behind us, he oozed wide grins and polite conversation. A far cry from the formidable man I lived with.

The first people to set us apart and corner us into a private tête-à-tête was a fifty-something politician couple who came all the way from DC. Wolfe introduced me as his future bride, then chided me with a good-natured sneer. “Don’t be shy. Show them the ring.”

I stood frozen, my heart pushing through my throat and ready to jump out of my mouth before Wolfe pried my hand from the side of my body and showed them the huge engagement band. The woman grasped my hand, examined it, then slapped her chest.

“Oh, it is so perfect. How’d he propose?” She batted her eyelashes at me, the suspense obviously killing her. That was my chance to ruin all of Wolfe’s hard work. I grinned, moving my hand slowly, letting the diamond catch the lights in the room and blind everyone in our vicinity.

“On the steps of the Art Institute. My poor fiancé made a spectacle of himself. Tore his dress pants from behind as he went down on one knee. His entire butt was on full display.” I sighed, not daring to look up at his reaction.

“You did not!” The man burst out laughing, clapping Wolfe’s shoulder. The woman snorted and flashed Wolfe a smile open with both admiration and lust. I chanced a look at Wolfe and saw his lips thinning in irritation. Unlike them, he did not find my story entertaining.

Their reaction put me in my element, though, and I couldn’t wait to pull this trick again. For a moment, I considered he might tell them I was lying. But that wasn’t Wolfe’s style. It was an easy way out, and he looked like the kind of man to take the long, winding road to victory.

“It was worth the hassle.” He grinned down at me, pulling me so close to him, I thought his body was going to swallow mine whole. “Besides,” he hissed only for me to hear, his warm, minty breath tickling the side of my neck, “if my bride knew me even a little, she’d know I never kneel.”

For a while, all we did was break the news of our engagement as more and more people came to congratulate us, thereby ignoring the newly wedded couple. Bishop Junior and his bride didn’t seem to care the attention wasn’t directed at them. In fact, they looked so happy, their eyes twinkling with love, that I couldn’t help but feel even more angry toward Wolfe for depriving me of being with my true love. Senator Wolfe Keaton paraded me like a royal horse around the room, showing me off as though I was an asset. My stomach churned and whined in hunger, and it took everything in me not to sway by his side like a shaking leaf. To make matters worse, Wolfe nudged me when I needed to smile, dragged me into his embrace when I drifted away, and volunteered me to servitude on three different charity events in the upcoming months.

Attractive women giggled and slipped their numbers into his hand as they came to congratulate us on separate occasions, thinking I wouldn’t notice. One of them, a UN ambassador, even reminded him about their marvelous time in Brussels two years ago and hinted at staying in town for a while.

“We should grab a drink. Catch up,” the mahogany-haired beauty suggested in her syrupy-sweet French accent. He flashed her an Angelo smile. The kind that rearranged the molecules in the air and made your heart flutter.

“I’ll have my secretary get in touch with yours tomorrow morning.”

Bastard.

People praised our engagement and seemed to be comfortable with our age gap. In fact, other than Preston Bishop himself, who was at our table the night of the masquerade and witnessed the verbal bashing Wolfe Keaton had offered me, no one challenged our sudden engagement. Even Bishop settled for a raised eyebrow.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Wolfe retorted. “Life seems to be full of them.”

His words were casual but held a deeper meaning I wasn’t privy to.

Each time I’d been introduced to Wolfe’s peers, I came up with a different story for our engagement.

“He forgot his words, then developed a sudden lisp. He had to write them down, and even that had a few grammatical errors. It was so endearing.”

“The proposal was so romantic. He asked my father for my hand, the old-fashioned way, and I was so touched when he started crying when I said yes. He was bawling, actually, weren’t you, Wolfey? Nothing a Xanax and a piña colada couldn’t fix. Of course, I’d never have dreamt that this was my future husband’s favorite cocktail.”

“I’m so excited to be marrying a senator. I’ve always wanted to visit DC. Did you know that Nirvana was from Washington? Oh, wait, honey, that’s not the same Washington, now, is it?”

I was relentless. Even when Wolfe turned from mildly annoyed to positively furious, the tic of his jaw suggesting he was going to snap at me the minute we were alone, I kept spewing nonsense I knew would embarrass him. And he—the perfect gentleman in public—kept chuckling softly and backing me up, all while redirecting the conversation to work and the upcoming elections.

Being introduced to half of Chicago’s high society proved to be a time sucker. So much so that I didn’t have time to look for my parents. After what seemed like hours, Wolfe and I finally made our way to our table. I slid into my chair, swallowing hard and trying not to swoon from lack of food. Keaton draped his arm across the back of my chair, brushing my bare shoulder with his fingers. The freshly married couple was at their central table, making a toast. We were seated next to another senator, two diplomats, and the former secretary of state. My eyes began to drift among the tables, searching for my family. I knew I would find them after dessert was served and when the dancing started, but I longed for a glimpse of Mama.

I found my parents seated at the table across the room. Papa looked his usual formidable, cutthroat self; the only signs of wariness were the dark circles framing his eyes. Mama looked put together as always, but I noticed the small things no one else would. The way her chin wobbled as she spoke with the woman sitting across from her, or the way her hand shook when she reached for her glass of wine. Next to them sat Angelo’s parents, and next to them…

My heart stilled, swelling behind my ribcage like a balloon about to burst.

Angelo brought a date. Not just any date, but the date. The one everyone had been expecting him to bring.

Her name was Emily Bianchi. Her father, Emmanuel Bianchi, was a well-known businessman and an undeclared member of The Outfit. Emily was twenty-three with silky blond hair and glorious cheekbones. Tall and busty, she could fit my slender, tiny frame in her palm. She was the closest thing to Italian-American royalty after me, but since she was Angelo’s age, their connection was expected—almost prayed for—among the families of The Outfit.

I’d met her plenty of times before, and she always treated me with a blend of boredom and dismissal. Not exactly rude but impolite enough to let me know that she didn’t like the amount of attention I was getting. It didn’t help that Emily went to school with Angelo, and that she absolutely despised me for spending my summers with him.

She wore a skintight black maxi dress with a deep slit that ran along her right thigh and was adorned with enough gold around her neck and through her ears to open a pawn shop. She had her hand clasped above Angelo’s as she made conversation with the people around her. A small, possessive gesture he did not reject. Not even when his eyes wandered across the room and landed on mine, locking us together in a weird battle in which no one would win.

I stiffened in my chair, my heart jackhammering against my sternum.

Air. I needed more air. More space. More hope. Because what I saw in his eyes frightened me more than my soon-to-be husband. It was complete and utter acceptance of the situation.

They were both in their twenties.

They were both beautiful, single, and from the same social circle.

They were both ready for marriage. Game over for me.

“Francesca?” One of the diplomats whose name I didn’t catch chuckled into his napkin, trying to draw my attention back to the conversation at the table. I broke away from Angelo’s gaze and blinked, looking back and forth between the old man and my future husband. I could see Wolfe’s jaw tensing with frustration that had built throughout the evening and knew he hadn’t missed the moment I’d shared with my childhood friend.

I smiled apologetically, smoothing my dress.

“Could you repeat the question, please?”

“Care to tell us how Senator Keaton popped the question? I have to say, he never struck me as the over-romantic type,” he chortled, stroking his beard like a Harry Potter character. I didn’t even have it in me to taunt Wolfe. I was too caught up in the fact that my life was officially over, and Angelo was going to marry Emily, therefore fulfilling my worst nightmare.

“Yeah, of course. He…he…proposed to me on the…”

“Staircase to the museum,” Wolfe clipped, chucking my chin in faux affection that made my skin crawl. “I don’t know what I did to deserve her passionate kiss. You stole my breath.” He turned to me, his grays on my blues, two pools of beautiful lies. People gasped around us, enchanted by the magnetic power of his expression as he stared at me. “I stole your heart.”

You stole my first kiss.

Then my happiness.

And finally, my life.

“T-that’s right.” I dabbed my neck with a linen napkin, suddenly too nauseous and weak to fight back. My body was finally crumpling under the strain of not eating for days. “I will never forget that night,” I said.

“Me neither.”

“You make a beautiful couple,” someone remarked. I was too dizzy to even tell if they were male or female.

Wolfe smirked, raising his tumbler of whiskey to his lips.

Defying him purposely—and undoubtedly stupidly—I allowed my eyes to drift back to the table where I longed to sit. Emily was now grazing her French-manicured fingernails along Angelo’s blazered arm. Angelo looked down at her face, his mouth breaking into a grin. I could see how she defrosted him to the idea of them. How she lowered his guard, one touch at a time.

She leaned toward him, whispering something in his ear and giggling, and his eyes shot to me again. Were they talking about me? Was I making a complete fool of myself by staring at them so openly? I grabbed a glass of champagne, about to knock it down in one go.

Wolfe wrapped his fingers around my wrist, stilling my hand before it reached my mouth. It was a gentle, firm touch. Callous and hairy. A man’s touch.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been through this. This is real champagne. The grownup kind,” he said with a hint of exasperated sympathy in his voice, causing the entire table to roar with wild laughter.

“The trouble of marrying a youngster,” the other senator snorted out.

Wolfe raised a thick, condescending eyebrow. “Marriage is a tricky business. Which reminds me…” He leaned forward, his blank expression turning into a sympathetic frown. “How are you handling the divorce from Edna?”

Now my furious blush became almost unbearable. I wanted to kill him. Kill him for this stupid stunt, for forcing me into marrying him, and for the fact that, by proxy, he just threw Angelo into Emily’s arms.

I put the champagne glass back on the table, biting my tongue from pointing out that I’d drank plenty at the gala where we’d met, and he didn’t seem to care much then. Actually, he took advantage of my tipsiness when he tricked me into kissing him.

“May I be excused?” I cleared my throat and, without waiting for an answer, stood and charged toward the bathroom, aware of the fact that my nemesis’ eyes, as well as Angelo’s and my parents’, were all on my back, pointed like loaded guns.

The restrooms were at the end of the ballroom, Gentlemen and Ladies facing one another, under a massive wrought-iron, curved stairway. I slipped inside, sagging against the wall, closing my eyes, and taking the deepest breath my corseted bodice would allow.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

A hand clasped my shoulder. Small, warm fingers curling around my collarbone. I cracked my eyes open and yelped, jumping backward, my head hitting the tiles behind me.

“Sweet Jesus!”

It was Mama. Up close, her face looked too wary, too old, and too unfamiliar. It looked like she’d aged a decade overnight, and all the anger I’d harbored toward her in the past three days flew out the window. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. Her normally proud, brown mane was littered with gray hair.

“How are you holding up, Vita Mia?”

Instead of answering, I flung myself into her arms, releasing a sob I’d been holding since Wolfe ushered me into his sleek black Escalade tonight. How could I not cut her some slack? She looked as miserable as I was.

“I hate it there. I don’t eat. I barely sleep. And to make matters worse…” I sniffed, disconnecting from her so I could hold her gaze for emphasis. “Angelo is dating Emily now.” I felt my eyes bulging out of their sockets with urgency.

“It’s only their first date,” Mama assured me, patting my back and drawing me into another hug. I shook my head in the crook of her shoulder.

“I don’t even know why it matters. I’m getting married. It’s done.”

“Sweetie…”

“Why, Mama?” I stepped out of her embrace again, dragging myself toward the imperial sinks to pluck some tissue before my makeup was completely ruined. “What possessed Papa to do something like this?”

I watched her in the reflection of the mirror behind me. The way her shoulders wilted in her slightly oversized black dress. I realized she hadn’t been eating much, either.

“Your father doesn’t share many things with me, but trust me when I tell you this was not an easy decision for him to make. We are still shaken by what happened. We just want you to give Senator Keaton an honest chance. He is handsome, rich, and has a good job. You’re not marrying beneath you.”

“I am marrying a monster,” I drawled.

“You could be happy, amore.”

I shook my head, before throwing it backward and laughing. She didn’t have to spell it out for me. Her hands were tied. I harbored many bad feelings toward my father but thinking them openly—not to mention uttering them aloud—was like pouring cyanide onto an open wound. Mama looked back and forth between the door and me, and I knew what she was thinking. We couldn’t stay here much longer. People would start asking questions. Especially when they saw that I’d been crying. Keeping up appearances was vital in The Outfit, and if people suspected Papa’s arm had been twisted by a young, ambitious senator who was new on the scene, it could kill his reputation.

Mama opened her purse and produced something, shoving it into my hand.

“I found this buried under a pile of dirty laundry in your room. Use it, Vita Mia. Start easing into your new life because it’s not going to be a bad one. And for the love of God, start eating!”

She dashed out, leaving me to open my hand and inspect the recovered item. It was my cell phone. My precious cell phone. Fully charged and stocked with messages and missed calls. I wanted to inspect them all—privately, and when time allowed for it. I knew that my assumption that Senator Keaton had taken my phone privileges without asking him was a little extreme. Then again, blackmailing my father into giving him my hand was not exactly subtle courting, so no one could blame me for jumping to conclusions.

I threw the used tissue in the trash can and stormed out to the dim alcove under the staircase, my five-inch Louboutins slapping against the marble floor. I made two steps outside before I was cornered against the mirror overlooking the back of the stairway by a tall, delicate-boned frame. I groaned, slowly opening my eyes as my spine recovered from the collision with the mirror.

Angelo was boxing me in with his arms on either side of my head, his body flush against mine. His chest brushed the exposed, tender flesh of my cleavage, and our hearts crashed against each other in unison, our breaths mingling together.

He sought me out. He came after me. He still wanted me.

“Goddess,” he whispered, cupping the side of my face and pressing his forehead to mine.

His voice was so drenched with emotion, my hands quivered their way to his face, holding his cheeks for the first time. He pressed his thumb to the center of my lips.

I held onto the lapels of his jacket, knowing what I was asking for, and asking for it anyway. The need to be held by him was stronger than the need to do the right thing by us. I longed for him to tell me that Emily meant nothing to him, even though it wasn’t fair to her. Or him. Not even to me.

“I’ve been worried sick.” He nuzzled his nose against mine brazenly. This was more physical contact than we’d had since we were born, and that—combined with my hunger strike—sent my head spinning in a dozen different directions.

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You haven’t been good at picking up the phone.” He clutched my hand that held my phone, squeezing it for emphasis.

“I’ve just recovered it for the first time since the masquerade,” I breathed.

“Why’d you do that?” Angelo asked, his body practically grinding over mine. Panic licked at my conscience. What if Angelo was touching me the way he’d never dared before because he had nothing to lose anymore? My father would never frown upon him for taking it too far—because he would never have to stand in front of Arthur Rossi and ask him for my hand.

I desperately wanted to explain everything about my sudden engagement. But I also knew that if my father couldn’t do anything about it, Angelo sure wouldn’t be able to help me, either. I didn’t want us to be star-crossed lovers, stealing moments and sneaking kisses. Drowning in forbidden love. I didn’t know much about my future husband, but I did know this—if I caused him a scandal, he’d retaliate and hurt those I loved. I didn’t mind taking his wrath, but Angelo didn’t deserve to be punished.

“Angelo.” I raked my hands over his chest. I’d never touched a man like this before. So openly. His pecs flexed under my fingertips, and he felt hot, even through the fabric of his suit.

“Tell me,” he probed.

I shook my head. “We fit.”

“We fit,” he countered. “He sucks.”

I laughed through the tears lodging in my throat.

“I want to kiss you so bad, goddess.” He grabbed the back of my neck—no longer nice and understanding and teasing—leaning down for the kill. He was trying to prove a point. A point I was already sold on.

“Then I suggest you do it right away because eighteen days from now, she will be a married woman, and I will have every right to break your fingers for touching her,” a dry, menacing voice grumbled behind Angelo.

Stunned, I slipped my hands from Angelo’s chest, my legs giving in from surprise. Angelo caught me by the waist, righting me. He snapped out of the dark lust blazing in his eyes, twisting to look at Wolfe. My future husband casually made his way to the men’s restroom, his swagger completely unperturbed by the affectionate display in front of him. He was much taller, broader, and darker than Angelo, not to mention nearly a decade older, dripping with the air and power of a force you shouldn’t cross. The authority he possessed was almost tangible. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from apologizing for the scene unfolding in front of him. I looked up instead of down, refusing to declare defeat.

Angelo looked straight at him.

“Senator Keaton,” he bit out.

Wolfe halted between the two entrances of the restrooms. I could feel his imperial body as he looked back and forth between us, assessing the situation with cool disinterest.

“I meant every word, Bandini,” Wolfe said huskily. “If you’d like to kiss my fiancée goodbye, tonight’s your chance to do it. In private. Next time I see you, I will not be so forgiving.”

With that, he brushed his fingertips over my engagement ring, a not-so-subtle reminder of whom I belonged to, sending a shockwave through my body. He disappeared behind the restroom door before I could catch my breath. I thought Angelo would run away the minute Wolfe gave him his back, but he didn’t.

Instead, he caged me against the mirror with his arms again, shaking his head.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why Emily?” I countered, raising my chin.

“You’re the only woman I know who’d bring Emily up right now.” He balled his fist, slamming it beside my head. I swallowed a gasp.

“I came with Bianchi because you are engaged to be married.” Angelo licked his lips, trying to gain control over his emotions. “And also because you made me look like an idiot. Everyone was expecting an engagement announcement would be made any month now. Every single asshole in The Outfit. And here you are, sitting across the room at the table with the secretary of state, in the arms of Wolfe Keaton, playing the dutiful fiancée. I needed to save face. A face you walked all over with your pretty, seductive heels. Worst part, Francesca? You aren’t even telling me why.”

Because my father is weak and is being blackmailed.

But I knew I couldn’t say it. It would ruin my family, and as much as I despised my father right now, I couldn’t betray him.

Without realizing what I was doing, I held his cheeks in my hands, smiling through the tears that were running down my cheeks, chasing one another.

“You will always be my first love, Angelo. Always.”

His harsh breath came down on my face, warm and laced with sweet, musky wine.

“Kiss me right.” My voice shook around my request because the last time I’d been kissed—the only time I’d been kissed—was all wrong.

“I’ll kiss you the only way I can without giving you my heart, Francesca Rossi. The only way you deserve to be kissed.”

He leaned down, his lips pressing on the tip of my nose. I felt his body shuddering against mine with a sob that threatened to rip through his bones. All those years. All those tears. All the sleepless nights of anticipation. The countdowns of the weeks, and days, and minutes until we saw each other every summer. Playing too close to each other in the river. Fingers knotting under the table at restaurants. All those moments were wrapped inside that innocent kiss, and I wanted so badly to execute my masquerade plan that night. To slope my head up. To meet his lips with my own. But I also knew that I would not forgive myself for ruining this for him with Emily. I couldn’t tarnish the beginning of their relationship just because mine was doomed.

“Angelo.”

He covered my forehead with his. We both closed our eyes, savoring the bittersweet moment. Finally together, breathing the same air. Only to be forever torn apart.

“Maybe in the next life,” I said.

“No, goddess, definitely in this one.”

With that, he turned around and glided down the darkened hallway, allowing me a few more calming breaths before I stepped out of the alcove and faced the music. When my shaking subsided, I cleared my throat and marched toward my table.

With every step I took, I tried to convey more confidence. My smile was a little wider. My back a little straighter. When I spotted my table, I noticed Wolfe wasn’t there. My eyes began to search for him, a concoction of irritation and dread twirling in my stomach. We left things so awkwardly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Part of me hoped—prayed—that he’d finally had enough of me, and that he called things off with my father.

The more I searched for his tall figure, the faster my heart thrust against my sternum.

Then I found him.

My future husband, Senator Wolfe Keaton, was skating past tables elegantly. Three feet behind him, Emily Bianchi ambled, tall and provocative, her hips swaying like a dangled, forbidden apple. Her hair blond and shiny—just like his date from the masquerade. No one had noticed how her cheeks were stained pink. How they put some distance between their footsteps but headed in the same direction.

Emily was the first to disappear behind the massive, silky black draperies, slipping from the ballroom without notice.

Wolfe stopped, shook hands with an old, wealthy-looking man, and struck easy conversation with him for at least ten minutes before taking a sidestep and resuming his journey to the back of the ballroom.

As if sensing my gaze on him, Wolfe turned his head toward mine, amidst the hundreds of people around us, and locked our eyes together. He winked, his lips unflinching, as his legs carried him to his destination.

My blood bubbled in my veins. When I was busy restraining my passion toward her date, Emily had been snagging my future husband for a quickie.

I stood there, fists balling beside my thighs. My heart pounded so loud, I thought it was going to burst across the floor and flip like a fish out of water.

Wolfe and Emily had betrayed us.

Disloyalty had a taste.

It was bitter.

It was sour.

It was even a little sweet.

Most of all, it taught me an important lesson—whatever the four of us had, it wasn’t sacred anymore. Our hearts were tarnished. Stained. And guilty.

Unpredictable to a fault.

And bound to break.