Isabella’s revelation — that Gabe’s entire performance had been a masterful misdirection — hung between them, a specter at the feast of their temporary peace. They had showered in a wordless communion, washing away the sweat and scent of the ballroom, but the stain of the night was indelible. Now, dressed in the hotel’s plush robes, they sat amidst the ruins of a room service breakfast neither had touched.
Alessandro stared into his black coffee as if it were a scrying pool, his face a granite mask. The man who had knelt before her in raw vulnerability was gone, retreated behind a wall of cold, simmering fury — but this time, the fury was directed inward. His knuckles, bruised and swollen from connecting with Gabe’s jaw, rested on the table like a confession.
“I handed him the victory,”
