Chapter 152 - Nova

Chapter 152 - Nova
“And what did they do there to Santiago?” Olivia asked suddenly, just when I thought we were nearing the end of this exhausting conversation.

I blinked at her, the question striking me sideways. “Nothing?” I said, more confused than anything. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

She didn’t soften her tone. In fact, it sharpened. “The question isn’t difficult. What did they do to Santiago?”

A strange sort of chill washed over me. “As far as I know,” I said carefully, “he just came to the club… and we were together. That’s all.”

Olivia leaned forward across the table, her brows drawn together, her voice almost a whisper but laced with steel. “No. No, that doesn’t make sense. I know Santiago. I know who he is. There’s no way he’d be into that.”

I didn’t even hear the rest at first. My mind snagged on something else—ex-fiancé. My eyes flicked to hers, stunned. She was engaged to Santiago?

That revelation hit me harder than anything she’d said so far. It carved a hollow right through my chest. Her? This composed, sharp, commanding woman? I suddenly felt like I had been miscast in a story I didn’t belong in. What could Santiago possibly want with me, when this was the woman he had almost married?

Olivia didn’t stop. Her voice was gathering speed now. “My ex-fiancé would never—never—be into something like this,” she said, and her hand cut through the air as if to slice the word itself away from him. “This... dynamic. That whole dominant-submissive thing. It's not him.”

I swallowed hard. The memory of Santiago’s voice in my ear, of his hands gripping me, of the way he commanded the space around him with quiet, possessive authority, all came rushing back. He had wanted that. Not just wanted—it had lit something in him, something raw and real.

I sat up a little straighter, grounding myself in that truth. “Well… maybe you’re mistaken,” I said, more sure of myself now.

Olivia's head shook fiercely. “No. No, I know him. Either someone at that club did something to him, or you did.”

There it was.

The accusation slid across the table like a knife.

I didn’t flinch. Not this time. I was still reeling from the knowledge of who she had been to him, but that didn’t change what I knew in my bones. He hadn’t been coerced. He hadn’t been brainwashed. He had been there of his own volition—wanted to be there.

I almost said something then—something sharp, something about the nights I’d spent with Santiago, how unambiguous his desires had been. About the certainty in his eyes, and how he never once faltered in what he wanted from me or how he wanted it. I could have told her all of that.

But I didn’t. Because maybe the hardest truth of all wasn’t about Santiago’s desires—it was about how little either of us truly knew the full shape of the people we once thought we understood completely.

So instead, I looked at her, calm and steady. “I didn’t change him,” I said. “And neither did they. Maybe he just stopped hiding.”

Olivia’s eyes didn’t blink, but I saw something shift in them—something that flickered too fast to name. Anger? Doubt? Fear? It passed across her face like a shadow, and just as quickly it was gone. The cold mask returned.

“You didn’t change him,” she echoed, her voice flat, unreadable. “Right.”

But she didn’t sound convinced.

She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, like she was retreating behind armor. Her gaze flicked to the notes in front of her, then back to me.

“For your sake,” she said slowly, “I hope that’s true.”

I stayed quiet. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of arguing, or defending myself. Because the truth was, I didn’t need to. I didn’t need her approval. I didn’t even need her belief. But still, the words stung. For all my strength—earned, not given—I still felt like a girl sitting across from a woman who had once had the version of Santiago I never would.

The room felt colder now. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, and I became hyper-aware of the silence between her words and mine. It stretched like a wire pulled too tight.

Olivia stared at me for a few more seconds—long enough that the silence felt almost strategic, like she was waiting for me to crack. But I didn’t. I met her gaze without flinching, even as my heart thudded somewhere near my throat.

“You know,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost reflective, “the Santiago I knew didn’t let anyone close. He was brilliant, ambitious, obsessive... but cold. Focused. Everything had its place. Every person, every moment, every touch—it was all a calculation.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? That the man I knew had been warm when no one was watching? That he’d whispered things to me in the dark that sounded like truth, like promises? That his hands had known how to hurt and how to heal in equal measure? She wouldn’t believe me. And maybe she shouldn’t.

Olivia looked down at her notes again, tapping her pen once, twice, three times against the edge of the table. Then she lifted her eyes to mine. “Did he ever talk about me?”

I blinked. That wasn’t the question I’d expected.

“No,” I said honestly, my voice low. “Not really.”

She gave a sharp, humorless smile. “Of course not. Santiago doesn’t talk about things. He moves past them like they never existed.”

I wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had ended between them. And how much of her bitterness was about loss, and how much was about pride. There was a difference, and Olivia seemed like someone who could wield either like a weapon.

“I’m not here to talk about him,” I said quietly, but clearly. “Not like that. You wanted information about the club. I’ve told you everything I remember.”

She let out a breath, slow and deliberate. “Fine. Let’s move on.”

She flipped the page of her legal pad and adjusted the angle of the small recorder on the table.

“Tell me what you know about the doctor,” she said. “His procedures. His role. Anything he said to you, anything you overheard.”

I stiffened. That question didn’t come out of nowhere. She’d known to ask. My skin prickled.

I searched my memory, trying to sort flashes from fragments. “He... he wasn’t like the others. He didn’t talk to us much, but when he did, it was all clinical. Cold. He never called us by name. Just numbers.”

“And I always woke up in the morning not remembering anything anymore.”, I concluded.

“We have enough,” she said quietly, almost like she was speaking to herself.

I didn’t know if she meant for the case. Or for her opinion of me.

She stood, gathering her files, motioning to someone behind the glass to stop recording.

“You’ll be called again,” she said. “Maybe for more questions. Maybe for court. Prepare yourself.”

I stood too, slow and deliberate, my legs still a little shaky from everything I’d dredged up.

As I reached the door, she called after me, just as I touched the handle.

“Alessia.”

I turned.

“Whatever you think this is—whatever you think you’ve built with him—be careful. Santiago doesn’t lose often. And when he does, he makes sure he’s not the only one who bleeds.”

I didn’t respond. Not with words.

I simply looked her in the eye, gave her the smallest of nods, and walked out.