Chapter 11: My Alibi

I stared at the locked door like it had personally insulted me.

The audacity.

The sheer, unfiltered audacity of that man.

He wasn’t just a bodyguard—he was a tyrant with a six-pack. A dictator in black. And now, apparently, a goddamn jailer.

I let out a guttural scream and shoved off the floor, pacing the room like a caged lioness. My heels clicked against the marble, loud and chaotic, mirroring the storm brewing in my chest.

He locked me in.

He locked me in.

What next? Chains? A moat? A fucking dragon guarding the window?

“I will murder him,” I muttered, storming over to where my purse lay on the floor and snatching out my phone. “Slowly. Painlessly? No. Painfully. With glitter glue and dull tweezers.”

The second I unlocked the screen, I hit the name at the top of my contacts list.

Camilla.

If anyone could talk me down from murder, it was her. Or at the very least, she’d be my alibi.

“Finally,” she answered after one ring. “I’ve been refreshing your location for the past twenty minutes. We were supposed to meet at Celine.”

“I didn’t bail,” I snapped. “I was kidnapped.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “What?”

“Kidnapped. By Alessandro.”

Camilla gasped like I’d just told her the devil himself rose through the marble tiles and dragged me to hell. “Wait—what?!”

“He locked me in my own room,” I hissed, throwing myself down onto my mattress with a furious bounce. “Physically picked me up, threw me over his shoulder like I was a damn yoga mat, and tossed me in here like a sack of potatoes. Then he locked the door. Like I’m some feral raccoon he needs to quarantine!”

I heard rustling on the other end. Then a low, dramatic gasp. “You mean to tell me… you were manhandled by Alessandro?”

“Camilla—”

“In his arms?”

“Camilla, don’t—”

“Thrown over his shoulder? Like a—like a disobedient little princess?”

“Oh my God.”

“I wouldn’t mind being locked in any room if Alessandro was in there with me,” she said, her voice a dream-drenched sigh.

I sat up so fast my hair whipped my face. “Are you serious right now?! You’re fantasizing while I’m being held hostage?!”

“Oh, honey, I’d trade lives with you in a heartbeat. You should see the look on Julia's face right now, she looks like she's going to faint.”

As if summoned by name, another voice came through the speaker. “Is he close by?”

It was Julia.

Of course it was.

I groaned and fell back onto the bed, one arm flung dramatically over my eyes like a Shakespearean tragedy heroine mid-breakdown. “You’re all insane. Every single one of you. He’s not hot—he’s terrifying. He has the emotional range of a potato and the personality of a black ops ghost. He just kidnapped me!”

There was a pause.

Then Camilla’s voice, quieter this time. “Have you… like… actually looked at him?”

I ripped the arm off my face and stared at the ceiling. “What does that mean?”

“I mean really looked at him,” she said, as if I were being deliberately obtuse. “That man looks like he was carved by ancient gods during a thunderstorm. I’m talking cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, arms like coiled steel, that whole stoic tortured-soul thing going on? Please. I’d commit federal crimes for a man like that.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’d commit war crimes,” Julia added.

“And the way he moves?” Camilla kept going, dreamy and unrepentant. “Like he’s two seconds away from either seducing you or snapping someone’s neck. I don’t know whether to swoon or hide.”

“Incredible,” I muttered. “He’s kidnapped me and turned my own friends against me.”

In the background, I heard Rosetta’s voice. “Tell him I said hi!”

That was it.

I hung up.

Just smacked the screen with my thumb and flung the phone across the bed like it burned me.

“Unbelievable.” I stood, storming back to the door like I could will it open. “What is wrong with everyone?! Do I need to draw a diagram? He’s not Prince Charming, he’s a six-foot-tall prison warden with an ego problem!”

I banged my fist once against the door, then froze, ears straining.

Silence.

I wasn’t sure if he was still out there. Honestly, I hoped he wasn’t. Because if I so much as saw his face right now, I was liable to either break his jaw or rip out his eyes. My brain was fried. My pride was cracked. And my hormones were staging a coup.

No.

Absolutely not.

I wouldn’t let him, or my father, or the entire testosterone-drunk security team control my life.

I was done being ordered around.

My eyes darted to the window.

Big. Wide. Tempting.

I walked over slowly, pushing the velvet curtain aside and peeking down.

Rose bushes.

Two security cameras.

And a fountain.

“Interesting,” I muttered, tapping my chin.

If I timed it right, I could land in the bushes, roll under the hedge, dodge the fountain, avoid the cameras and escape through the east side garden.

Was it reckless?

Yes.

But I was a woman on the edge and there was only so much injustice a girl could take.

I was halfway through tying a makeshift rope when I heard footsteps down the hall. Heavy. Purposeful.

Alessandro.

I froze.

The bastard was back.

I pressed my ear to the door, silent as death. My heart was hammering in my chest, fists clenched. If he tried to come in again, I was ready with a perfume bottle to the eye and a lamp to the head.

But… nothing.

Just the sound of him walking past my door like nothing happened.

Like he hadn’t just thrown me over his shoulder like a misbehaving debutante and locked me in like Rapunzel with a rage problem.

I let out a shaky breath.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Okay. I need to calm down.”

But I didn’t want to calm down.

I wanted to scream. To stomp. To scratch out that godforsaken bastard's eyes.

Instead, I grabbed my phone again and opened my front-facing camera.

Big mistake.

I looked like hell.

Hair wild. Lipstick smeared. Dress wrinkled like I’d fought a jungle cat and lost.

Still.

I narrowed my eyes and tilted my chin.

Even angry, I looked good.

A little homicidal, maybe—but good.

“Let’s see if you can stop me now,” I whispered, glancing once more at the window.

I opened my message app and typed out a message to Camilla and Julia:

Emergency mission. Plan B. Operation Window Dash. Meet me at the south gate in twenty.

I hit send.

Then, without another word, I crossed the room, stepped into my favorite black boots—stilettos with red soles sharp enough to stab a man—and walked to the window.

The wind blew in, cool and defiant.

I smiled.

They could lock doors.

They could bark orders.

But I was Moretti blood.

And I never stay caged for long.