Chapter 49

**A L E X**

Sophia wraps her arms around me, thanking me with that cheerful, oblivious smile of hers. “Thank you, Alex!” she says, practically glowing with happiness. “This party is incredible—the music, the cake, everything. You really went all out!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I ruffle her hair, forcing a smirk. “I told you, you just had to give in and admit it’s good to be a Moretti.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get cocky. I’m not saying I approve, I’m just saying the music was nice.”

“It’s not just the music, *sorellina*. Once you get a taste of it, you’ll want more.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” she mutters, shaking her head. “But how did you even get Bruno Mars to say yes?”

I raise a brow. “Remind me my name again?”

Another eye roll. And a playful smack to my arm. Before she can launch into more questions, I cut her off. “Sophia,” I say, nodding toward Grace Miller and Rossi. “Why don’t you go get your friend? Show her some of the gifts from our guests.”

I don’t have to explain why. Sophia blinks, confused, then follows my gaze. Her eyes narrow slightly as she takes in Grace Miller’s position—Matteo’s hand on her waist, their proximity, the way they’re leaning into each other. And then she understands. We share a look, one that says everything without saying a word.

Sofia knows the risks better than anyone. The longer Grace spends around Matteo, the more dangerous this becomes. She’s already too close.

Sofia doesn’t waste time. She marches straight across the room and reaches Grace, smoothly pulling her away from Matteo under the guise of showing her some ridiculous pile of presents. My shoulders relax a fraction. Good. One less problem.

The Russian princess is still talking at my side, and I’m seriously considering telling her to shut the fuck up when Lizzie catches my eye from across the room. One look and she knows I need an out.

“Someone wants to see you,” she says smoothly, slipping in beside us. “A Mr. O’Malley. Urgently.”

“Of course.” I nod curtly, excusing myself. Let Lizzie handle the chatterbox.

I head straight for the bar, ordering something a whiskey, neat. I need it. My head’s a fucking mess, and I need to clear it. “Make it strong,” I growl, watching as he mixes a drink that’s pure fire. But just as I’m about to grab it, the bartender stops me. “Sorry, sir, this one’s for someone else.”

I arch a brow. “Who?”

“The lady said it was urgent.”

My eyes narrow. “What lady?”

He jerks his chin toward the other side of the bar. I follow his gaze—only to find Grace Miller standing there, laughing with Sophia, barely keeping her balance.

Hell no.

I grab the glass and down it in one go, the burn of the whiskey grounding me. “Get her some orange juice,” I bark at the bartender. “Tell her she’s had enough for one night.”

The bartender looks confused but doesn’t argue when I pin him with a hard stare. He scurries off, leaving me alone again. I gesture for another, but just as he slides it towards me, the entire drink is ruined by a splash of orange liquid.

“What the fuck—”
I snap my head up, rage burning through me. Grace Miller’s standing there, defiance in her eyes, her lips stained red and glistening. My gaze lingers on her mouth too long—too goddamn long. She notices and licks her lips, slow and deliberate. She’s staring at me with a challenge in her gaze, and fuck if it doesn’t make my blood run hot.

“What the *fuck* is your problem?” she demands.

I just stare at her. I don’t answer.

“God,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Who am I even talking to?”

Then, before I can react, she reaches across the bar, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the bartender’s hand. In one smooth motion, she raises it, tipping it toward her lips.

Not a fucking chance.

I move fast, grabbing the bottle out of her grip. She doesn’t let go, though. She gets yanked forward, crashing into my chest. Her body is warm against mine, eyes blazing as she glares up at me.

And fuck, I want her.

But I also want to break her. I want to push her until that defiance shatters into something else. Something I can control.

She pulls on the bottle, trying to wrench it away. I don’t let go. Instead, I pull harder, bringing her even closer. She’s so close, her breath warm against my neck. She glares up at me, eyes blazing. The feel of her against me, even through layers of fabric, is maddening. She’s breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes locked onto mine with a thousand unsaid things swimming in their depths.

She suddenly lets go of the bottle and steps back, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. The warmth of her body against mine is gone, leaving nothing but cold emptiness in its place. I almost laugh at the thought—cold? Lonely? I’m supposed to be lonely. That’s what I’ve been, for years. Lonely is my natural state. It’s my power. My strength. But right now, standing here without her, it feels like something’s missing.

She doesn’t say a word, just stares at me, straight into my eyes like no one ever has before. There’s something wild and intense in her gaze, like she’s holding back a thousand words, a thousand thoughts. I can see it, almost feel it—the way her lips part, the way her breath hitches, like she’s about to let it all out. All the anger, the confusion, the hate… everything.

Her eyes are doing all the talking now, screaming at me in a way I can’t even begin to decipher. I want to read them. I want to know what’s going on behind those eyes. Hell, I want her back in my arms, close enough so I can hear those unsaid words and feel them against my skin. But she’s not moving.

I stand there, frozen, waiting. Waiting for her to say something. To voice the thoughts I can’t reach. I feel like if she would just speak, I could understand. I could fix this.
But then she blinks.

The moment breaks.

She exhales, like she’s letting go of something heavy, and without another glance in my direction, she turns to leave.

Just like that.