VICTORIA BELLA WASHINGTON;
Earlier this morning in the kitchen, I avoided Vincenzo like he was contagious. Every time we almost crossed paths, I brushed past him as if he didn’t exist. His glare burned through me, irritated by my coldness, but who could blame me? The truth is, I wanted freedom. I needed it. Yes, the s*x was incredible—an earth-shattering event—but I was wasting away while he was out there, thriving in a world of chaos and shadows, where being a monster was just his job. He'd call it "work," like it was just another day, but I knew better. He got a rush out of it, and I was left here, caught between longing and resentment.
I watched his car speed off, a surge of unexpected longing hitting me. For a moment, I missed him. I missed his touch, the feel of his hands pulling me
