Cold Like Fire
748 Words
Alora was beginning to understand something dangerous.
Enzo Valdez didn’t hate her because she was weak.
He hated her because she wasn’t.
Every time she met his fire with calm, every time she spoke without trembling, he looked at her like she was a threat disguised in lace.
And still—he didn’t soften. Not even for a second.
She was nothing to him but a burden. A pawn placed in his life without his permission. And if he had his way, she’d be gone before their vows were even written in blood.
Yet, she was still here.
Still standing.
And maybe that was the real problem.
⸻
They were in the garden that evening, under the weight of unwanted company.
Their families had organized a formal dinner—an outdoor affair with fairy lights strung between trees, wine glasses clinking, and fake laughter rising over violins.
To anyone watching, it was romantic.
To Alora, it was war dressed in silk.
She sat beside Enzo, her posture flawless. He hadn’t said a word since they arrived. He barely even looked at her, and when he did, it was as though her presence was an insult.
“I hope you’re enjoying the food,” she said casually, slicing into her salmon.
Enzo didn’t even glance her way. “I don’t need small talk to get through this dinner, Vito. Save your breath.”
The use of her last name cut sharper than the knife in her hand.
“I’m trying to be civil,” she replied, voice quiet but firm.
He turned to her now, finally, slowly. “Why? You think if you behave long enough, I’ll suddenly decide this marriage is tolerable?”
“No,” she said. “But I don’t believe in becoming like the people who hate me just to survive them.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. Not warmth. Not respect.
But something cold. Like ice cracking before it collapses.
“You’re not surviving me,” he said. “You’re enduring me. There’s a difference. One you’ll learn soon enough.”
Alora exhaled slowly. “You spend so much energy trying to hurt me. Isn’t it exhausting?”
He leaned in slightly, just enough for her to feel the heat of him against her skin, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
“No. It’s a relief.”
For a moment, their eyes locked. And it wasn’t fire. It wasn’t heat. It was a storm—quiet, heavy, and waiting to break.
She didn’t look away.
And he hated her more for that.
⸻
Later that night, she stood by the fountain alone, her dress trailing over stone like moonlight. The guests had scattered. The music had faded. And the mask of civility had slipped from every face except hers.
Enzo found her there. Of course he did.
“You like being out here?” he asked from the shadows.
She didn’t turn. “It’s quiet. I can think.”
“Dangerous habit, thinking.”
“Especially around you,” she said, the edge in her voice surprising even her.
He stepped into the light. “You should be afraid of me.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m not.”
He tilted his head, studying her like she was something he needed to tear apart to understand. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“I think I do,” she replied. “You hate being forced to need anything. You hate that I’m here. But what you really hate… is that I see you.”
“You see nothing.”
“I see everything.”
Silence.
Then his voice, low and biting: “If you keep looking, I’ll make you regret it.”
She finally turned to him, standing tall.
“I’m not afraid of your threats, Enzo,” she said. “You want me to shatter. To run. But I’m not going anywhere. You can glare. You can snarl. You can promise to break me every day of this cursed arrangement…”
She stepped closer, eyes locked with his.
“…but you’ll have to get through me first.”
His expression was stone. No flicker of warmth. No sign of emotion. But the air between them sparked like flint.
He said nothing.
And then—he walked away.
Because if he stayed one second longer, he might do something worse than yell.
He might feel something.
And that was a weakness he refused to bleed for.
- Writer
