Chapter 9- Let Me Go!
I didn’t slam the door when I walked out of the mansion.
I didn’t need to.
Power doesn’t scream—it whispers.
It flows like silk, precise and undeniable. And right now, I was dripping in it. Head high, sunglasses on, hair falling in soft waves over my shoulders, black heels tapping against the stone driveway like war drums.
I had my phone in one hand, a custom crocodile clutch in the other, and enough rage in my bloodstream to light this whole estate on fire.
Alessandro could shove his stone face and rigid posture where the sun didn’t shine. I was done playing.
I had plans today. Very important, very petty, very satisfying plans that involved making someone’s life miserable.
I clicked the unlock button on my car key. The matte black Lamborghini purred to life ahead of me, headlights blinking like obedient eyes.
Freedom.
It tasted like leather seats and vengeance.
But then… he stepped in front of the car.
Like a ghost.
Like a fucking statue that forgot its place.
I stopped cold.
The audacity.
“Move,” I said, voice calm, sunglasses still on.
He didn’t.
I took a slow step forward, the sun catching on the glossy hood of the Lambo, casting a glare that made everything look surreal, dreamlike. Except this wasn’t a dream. This was a fucking nightmare with perfect cheekbones.
“Alessandro,” I said, quieter now, more dangerous. “Move.”
Nothing.
Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just a wall of silent disobedience with biceps.
I narrowed my eyes behind the shades. “What is wrong with your head?” I asked. “Are you malfunctioning? Do you need a reboot?”
Still nothing.
I reached out and shoved him.
Well—tried to.
It was like pushing a mountain.
He didn’t even lean.
“Oh my god,” I hissed, stepping back. “Get the fuck out of my way before I put a bullet between your eyes.”
I wasn’t bluffing.
I never bluffed.
I spun around, stalked toward the garage, keys already flipping between my fingers. Fine. Plan B. There were several other luxury cars parked inside. I’d just take one of those and be on my merry, vindictive way.
But then—
His hand clamped around my arm.
Firm.
Unyielding.
Like a fucking vice.
He spun me back around so fast my heels nearly slipped on the stone, but I recovered and looked up at him, eyes flashing.
“Don’s order,” he said.
His voice was quiet.
Rough.
Low enough that I could feel it in my bones.
My stomach twisted.
“What?” I snapped.
“You’re not permitted to leave the mansion.”
I blinked.
Then I laughed.
Loud. Sharp. Cruel.
I yanked my arm back, but he didn’t let go.
“Oh, that’s cute,” I spat. “Did Daddy call you this morning and give you a chore list? Make sure the little princess stays home, feed the dog, take out the trash—oh wait, that’s you.”
His jaw ticked.
But he still didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Infuriating.
“I don’t care what my father said,” I growled, trying to yank myself free again. “You hear me? I. Don’t. Care. He doesn’t control me. No one does. I go wherever the hell I want, whenever I want.”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t answer.
Like I wasn’t even worth the argument.
“God, you are so unbelievably arrogant,” I hissed. “You think just because you’re tall and silent and carry a gun that you can treat me like some prisoner? Newsflash—I don’t take orders. Not from him. Not from you.”
I twisted, tried to run again, this time for the Aston Martin.
I barely made it two steps before his arm snaked around my waist and dragged me back like I weighed nothing.
I shrieked, kicking against him, twisting in his grip. “Let me GO!”
Nothing.
He held me like a fucking statue, unbothered by my struggle.
My heart pounded. My nails dug into his forearm. My hair fell into my face, wild and chaotic, and I was ready to lose my damn mind.
“Touch me again, and I swear—”
And then I remembered.
The gun.
Tucked under the hem of my dress. Small. Sleek. Silver.
I reached for it, fast, smooth, years of practice making the motion second nature.
And then I spun.
He didn’t have time to stop me.
The muzzle of the gun pressed against his chest, right over that annoyingly calm heart of his.
Our eyes met.
Locked.
His hand still gripped my wrist. Mine clutched the pistol like salvation.
And in that moment—God, the tension.
It wrapped around us like a noose.
Neither of us breathing.
Neither of us blinking.
I could feel his breath, barely, like the ghost of a breeze across my lips.
I could see the faint pulse in his jaw, the only proof that he was flesh and not machine.
I was breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath the dress that now clung with sweat and rage. My finger curled around the trigger.
“You think I won’t?” I whispered.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
His eyes were ice and fire and storm all at once.
Unforgiving.
Unapologetic.
Unshaken.
“You think I won’t blow a hole through your fucking heart just to get to my goddamn car?”
Still… silence.
I tightened my grip.
The weight of the gun was nothing compared to the weight of this moment.
Because I wasn’t bluffing.
Not this time.
I could feel the air shifting around us. The security cameras watching. The guards frozen on the balcony above. No one dared move.
This was war now.
Me versus him.
Will versus will.
And God help the man who underestimated mine.
“You don’t own me,” I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. “And neither does he. I’ll put you down like a fucking dog if I have to.”
His jaw flexed.
Just barely.
A flicker of something in those eyes.
Still, no words.
But I could feel it.
The tension in his fingers. The faint twitch in his grip. He wasn’t unbothered. Not completely.
I’d touched a nerve.
Good.
I leaned in, close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek.
“I’ll count to three,” I whispered. “And if you’re still standing there, I’ll paint this driveway red.”
One second passed.
Two.
The sun beat down on us. A bird chirped somewhere in the trees. My heart pounded like a war drum.
And still—
He didn’t move.
I didn’t lower the gun.
Three.