Dante
The phone screen glared up at me, her words burning holes straight through the glass.
Ring? What ring? Who is this?
A minute later, like a knife twist:
Fiancé? What fiancé? You must have texted the wrong girl.
She knew exactly what she was doing. Mocking me. Testing me.
I’d told her once she’d regret being late, regret defiance, regret trying to match me move for move. And now here she was, doubling down, firing shots straight into my chest as if she couldn’t miss.
Matteo sprawled across from me, his boots propped on the edge of the desk, flicking a pen between his fingers. “You look like you’re about to strangle your phone,” he drawled.
I didn’t answer. My jaw ached from grinding my teeth.
“She really sent you that?” He leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Man, she’s
