The weight of my father's betrayal was a physical ache, a cold knife lodged deep in my chest. The guest room Dante had assigned me felt like a prison. Outside the window, the city glittered , a cage of lies intricate and dark as the lie I was living. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. The image of that man, spitting my father's name, played on a loop, combined with my constant lies to Dante. A part of me wanted to crash into his arms and cry my eyes out and tell him how much I had missed him and all I have been going through without him and without my mother. But it was pointless even thinking about it. I had changed so much and so has he, we weren't the same hopeless romantic teenagers anymore, we were both completely different even I couldn't recognize myself anymore.
Right now I needed to hear my father's voice, I needed him to tell me all of this was one big setup and all the lies I have been telling on his behalf was actually worth it.
My fingers, trembling slightly, dialed the secure number on my burner phone. It rang once, twice. Each tone was a hammer strike to my heart.
He answered on the third ring. "Mija. Report."
The casual way he always spoke to me, the cold, expectant demand—it shattered the last of my composure.
"Why?" The word came out before I could suck it in. "Why didn't you tell me about your deal with the Volkovs? I had to find out from a stranger, a man tied here, I had to find out from the heart of the so-called enemy, with Dante Moretti's eyes on me, watching my every reaction! Why?"
There was a pause on the other end. Not a pause of shock or remorse , but a calculated silence. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, patronizing, devoid of every warmth.
"Mija, you know how this game is played. The board has many pieces. I didn't tell you because I needed to test your loyalty to me, amor. A pure reaction is the most honest one, you passed." He said it like he was bestowing a great honor. "Now, do not get emotional. Focus on what I sent you there to do. Your next priority is to ensure you erase all records of my name from the systems. Permanently."
The cold finality of his tone, stole the air from my lungs. No apology. No explanation. Just another order. Another layer of deception. My work, my sacrifices, were just a test. A move in a game I never wanted to play.
"You used me," I whispered weakly, the words thick with pain I could not hold in any longer.
"I am preparing you," he corrected, his voice hardening. "Now, do your job."
The line went dead.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the polished marble floor. A single, hot tear, escaped, tracing a path through the perfect, foreign makeup that made me Sophia. It was a tear for the mother I lost, for the girl I had become and for the one I am betraying for a love and acceptance I could only earn through obedience.
I didn't hear the door open.
"Why are you crying?"
The voice, deep and quiet, came from behind me. I whirled around. Dante stood there, he had entered with such precise silence I didn't even notice. He was still in his shirtsleeves, his gaze fixed not on my face, but on the single, damning tear track on my cheek.
My heart jumped. 'How long had he been there? How much had he heard?'
"Nothing," I stammered, turning my head and swiping hastily at my cheek, careful not to smudge the makeup that was my cover. "It'.. the wind."
That was another lie, a stupid pathetic one at that. The windows were sealed shut.
He took a step into the room, and the space seemed to shrink around him. "Don't lie to me now, Sophia." His voice was low, but it held so much authority in it. "Who made you cry?"
The concern felt sweet, however harshly delivered, was a knife twisting in the wounds my father had just inflicted. I couldn't tell. I couldn't form the words.
"It's personal Sir." I said, my voice barely a whisper. I tried to step around him, to fleece the intensity of his presence.
His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping tightly around my wrist. The contact was electric. A jolt of memory, of sensation, so powerful it stole my breath. His touch was exactly the same—the same strength, the same heat. For a horrifying , wonderful second, I wasn't Sophia. I was Ava, his Ava.
His grip tightened, anchoring me as he pulled me back, to stand in front of him. His dark eyes searched mine, seeing too much.
"Sophia, you work for me," he said, leaving no room for argument. "And as per your contract, everything in your life is my business. Your distractions become my vulnerabilities. Your tears are a security risk. Every part of you is no longer personal. Do you understand?"
He was so close I could see the freckles of gold in his dark brown eyes, smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mingled with the lingering smell of coffee. I was getting intoxicated, I was getting too reckless with my thoughts and imaginations as well, I had really underestimated the demand of this mission and the emotional dilemma I had to go through.
"Yes sir," I breathed, my will internally crumbling under his gaze. "I understand."
He held my stare for a moment longer, a silent battle, I knew I couldn't win. Finally, he released my wrist, the ghost of his touch burning my skin.
"We will talk about this another time," he said, his tone leaving no doubt that it was a promise, not a suggestion. "For now, I need you to go get dressed, Kyle will be sending a dress up to you. We will be attending a party."
The shift was so abrupt it left me wondering. "We? Sir?"
He looked at me, slight tilt to his head. A spark of something—amusement? Annoyance?- flickered in his depthless eyes. "Sophia, did I stutter?"
"No, sir, but I-" I was his employee, his assistant. Not his date.
"No buts," he interrupted, his voice final. "As I said, a dress will be sent up to you. Be ready in an hour."
With that. He turned and walked out, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room, more confused, more terrified and more painfully aware of him than ever before.