THE ART OF AGONY
The dawn in Tuscany brought a cruel clarity. Light filtered through the suite's curtains, illuminating the trail of the previous night's battle: the torn lace dress on the floor, Aaron’s scattered papers, and the weight of the black diamond still hanging from my neck—a constant reminder that every inch of my skin had an owner.
Aaron was no longer in bed. I stood up, feeling every muscle in my body protest with a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion that made me hate myself. As I showered, the hot water struck the marks of his fingers on my hips. They weren’t just bruises; they were seals.
When I went down to the north wing, the air changed. It no longer smelled of expensive furniture wax and fresh flowers, but of disinfectant, metal, and something bitter I couldn't qu
