Chapter 56

**A L E X**

The room is cloaked in silence as Matt's footsteps echo down the hall, leaving me alone with Grace Miller and the storm brewing in her eyes. She’s pinned against the glass wall after delivering that punch to my jaw, every ounce of her bristling with anger and confusion. The look she gives me is sharp, filled with accusation and the kind of exasperation that pulls a smirk to the surface of my otherwise calm facade.

The irritation in her glare grows more defined, slicing through any hope I might have had for an easy end to this night. She steps forward, pressing her palms against my chest—harder than before—and I can feel her heartbeat thrumming, as if warning me to back off. “What the hell was that about?” Her voice is low, almost a hiss, as she searches my eyes. “How dare you?”

I meet her gaze steadily, unblinking, feeling the way her touch shifts from resistance to anger. She wants an answer, but the last thing I’m going to do is hand her the truth. It’s mine to hold, to twist however I choose.

“Alright, alright. Enough with this,” I say, stepping back with a nonchalant shrug, as if this whole exchange bores me. The annoyance flares in her face, red and raw, at my dismissal.

Her fists clench, her words sharp and unmistakable. “Why’d you put on that show in front of him?”

Him. The word is nearly spat from her mouth. A weak, revolting man who thinks he can swoop in and offer her something better. If only she knew.

“Why do you care so much about him?” I retort, letting my voice carry just enough bite to show her how absurd this is.

She stares at me, hard, the fire in her eyes blinding. “Because he’s my friend.” Her tone softens, like she’s admitting a secret to herself. “The only person who’s been nice to me here. He’s the only person who’s treated me kindly without expecting something in return. Why wouldn’t I care?”

For a moment, her words hang in the air, cutting deep. Nice. As if I haven’t, in my own twisted way, cared for her longer than she’s even aware. But to her, I’m something different, something dangerous—and the fact that she considers him nice only fuels my anger. She doesn’t know what I’ve done, how I’ve watched over her, orchestrated every piece of her life in quiet, violent secrecy.

I keep my face neutral, jaw clenched so tightly I feel the grind of my teeth. “I hope your friend wouldn’t mind postponing your little pizza and wine night for another evening,” I say, allowing sarcasm to lace each word.

Her mouth presses into a hard line, her gaze narrowing. “Why did you do that?” She steps away from the glass wall, and in that moment, as if the universe wants to mock me, her dress slips lower, almost slipping from her shoulders entirely. It stops just shy of revealing too much, but I catch a glimpse of bare skin, the way she’s exposed, vulnerable. Her hands fly up to fix it, and she gasps, whirling around, pressing her back to me in a flash of desperate modesty.

I keep my eyes steady, forcing down the urge to do something—anything—to cover her up. “I was just making sure he didn’t see you like this,” I say, grasping at the first lie that comes to mind, though I detest how easily the falsehood slips from my mouth.

She throws a look over her shoulder, disbelief etched in her gaze, the slightest scoff escaping her lips. “No,” she says, voice taut with accusation, “you wanted him to see me like that.” Her eyes burn with something fierce, daring me to deny it. Her emphasis on the word that only makes my lips quirk, almost breaking into a smirk.

Did I? Yes.

Does it really matter? I could ask her if she even understands what he represents, what kind of danger she’s aligning herself with—but I don’t. Instead, I force myself to breathe, to focus.

@Does it really matter that he saw you with me?” I counter, trying to brush off her words as if they don’t affect me.

Without waiting for her response, I walk over to the wardrobe, feeling a strange twinge at the sight of her clothes there, taking up space where nothing but my own should be. It’s wrong, and yet the familiarity has wormed its way in. But I shake off the thought and pull out one of my jackets from the locked drawers.
When I return, she’s standing by the window, her back to me, arms wrapped around herself in a poor attempt to fix her dress. Without a word, I drape the jacket over her shoulders. She grips it immediately, pulling it closed and buttoning it up, her fingers moving quickly. When she finally turns around, there’s a mixture of defiance and challenge in her eyes. She’s not shy, not trying to be modest—just furious.

“Yes, it does matter,” she hisses, her voice rising. “That sent the wrong message. It looked… it looked wrong.”

I raise an eyebrow, enjoying how she dances around the truth, unable to say it outright. “What did it look like?” I ask, knowing full well what she’s going to say but letting her struggle for it, pushing her to face the reality of our situation.

Her eyes close, and I see her jaw clench, frustration evident in every line of her face. “Like we were…” She lets the sentence drop, shaking her head, the exasperation pouring off her in waves.

The sight amuses me, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Her discomfort is palpable, and it only reminds me of the tension crackling between us. If only she knew the battles raging in my head every second I’m near her.

“It’s not funny.” Her voice snaps me back, and I catch myself, biting the inside of my cheek to stifle the grin.

“You’re right,” I say, though my tone betrays how little I mean it. “It’s not.”

Her gaze sharpens, irritation once again rearing its head, but I can’t stop the creeping satisfaction that builds as I watch her fight me with everything she has. But she’s fighting a losing battle, one she’s not even aware of yet.

“He could talk, you know,” she murmurs, her tone laden with caution, almost warning.

“Matteo Rossi?” I echo, more to myself than her, astonished by how little she understands this world. “He doesn’t talk, Grace Miller. Not to anyone—certainly not about something like this. The man’s a loner, his only friend is his reflection.”

And even if he did talk, what would it matter? This is far beyond the trivial gossip she’s imagining. But instead, I ask, “And what’s so bad about it if he does?”

Her eyes flash, and I can tell she’s holding back some cutting remark. “You’re Sophia’s brother. I’m her best friend.”

The words hit me, but they don’t have the sting they once would have. That boundary is something I crossed a long time ago, and she’s the only one who hasn’t caught on.

I look at her, really look at her, from the way her hair is a mess of chaos against her shoulders to her dress, barely held together by my jacket. The defiance in her eyes is unmistakable, challenging me with every fiber of her being.

In two strides, I’m in front of her, my hand reaching up to grip the back of her neck, tilting her face up to mine, so close I can feel her breath, shaky and uneven. There’s something there, in her eyes, something she’s not ready to face. But I’m here, a force she can’t avoid.

“You know what?” My voice is a low whisper, charged and heated. “To hell with that.”