Chapter 31- Heartless

Chapter 31- Heartless
I didn’t sleep.

Not a second, not a minute. The night dragged on like some cruel eternity where the clock ticked but nothing moved forward. I sat on the floor the entire time, my back pressed against the side of my bed, my arms limp over my knees. My body ached everywhere—my spine stiff, my shoulders heavy, my legs numb from sitting too long—but none of it compared to the pain tearing my chest apart.

I had cried until I thought I couldn’t anymore, but the tears betrayed me again and again. I kept staring at my phone on the floor beside me, praying for it to light up, for Camilla’s name to flash across the screen like it always did. That stupid picture of her smirking, the one she insisted on setting as her contact photo, just once more.

I prayed for her voice.

I prayed for her laugh.

I prayed for the impossible.

But the phone stayed dark. Silent. Cold.

Camilla was gone.

Every time the truth circled back, it was like being stabbed all over again. And yet, a tiny part of me refused to let go—like maybe if I held still long enough, if I refused to breathe too deeply, reality would rewind.

But reality was merciless.

When the first weak light of dawn began to creep in through the curtains, I realized my body was trembling, but not from the cold. It was from exhaustion, from grief, from rage that had nowhere to go. I pushed myself off the floor, my muscles screaming, and stood on unsteady legs. The mansion was still, quiet, but I hated the silence. It made me remember too much.

Dragging myself into the bathroom, I froze.

The memories hit like gunfire.

Camilla and I brushing our teeth side by side, talking with our mouths full of foam and laughing at how ridiculous we sounded. Camilla perching on the counter, legs swinging while she shouted at me to hurry up because we were late, always late. Us arguing over the mirror because she swore I hogged it.

Now the bathroom was just…empty. Too big. Too quiet. Too wrong.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and nearly flinched. My reflection looked like a stranger. My skin pale, my eyes bloodshot and swollen, strands of hair stuck to my damp cheeks. A ghost stared back at me, hollow-eyed, like someone already half-dead.

I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to exist.

Last night, I hadn’t even had the strength to shower. Camilla’s blood was still on me. Streaks of it dried into the fabric of my pajama shirt, beneath my nails, faint stains along my arms. Seeing it now made bile rise in my throat.

I turned on the shower and stepped under it, letting the hot water crash down on me. I didn’t even move. Didn’t scrub. Didn’t think. I just stood there like a robot, watching the red swirl away from my skin, spiraling down the drain. Like even her blood was leaving me.

By the time I stumbled out, I felt no cleaner. Just emptier.

I didn’t bother choosing clothes. I walked into my closet, reached blindly for the first thing my hand touched—a big shirt, baggy enough to drown in—and pulled it over my head. I couldn’t care less what I looked like. Fashion, makeup, appearances—those belonged to a different life, one that had died with Camilla.

Back in my room, I yanked the bedsheet and blanket off the bed, the same ones I had soaked in tears and screams hours ago. They disgusted me. They smelled like grief. Like death.

I crawled onto the bare mattress, my body aching, my eyes burning. I told myself I wouldn’t cry again. I refused. Camilla wouldn’t want me like this—broken, hollow, useless. She’d want me strong. She’d want justice.

I pressed my face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of my own shampoo, and told myself I was done crying. That I was finished with weakness. That the rage inside me was all I had left.

And for a moment, I almost believed it.

Until the knock came.

A sharp, precise rap against my door. My eyes snapped open, narrowing in fury. I didn’t want anyone. I didn’t want to see their faces, hear their voices, or pretend to care about anything they had to say.

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a voice.

“Miss Moretti,” Alessandro’s voice. Calm. Controlled. Always so damned controlled. “Your father wants to speak with you.”

I ground my teeth, forcing my face deeper into the pillow. I would ignore him. He didn’t deserve my answer, not now, not ever.

Another pause. Then, his voice again. “He says it’s urgent.”

I wanted to scream. Urgent? What could possibly be urgent compared to Camilla’s death? What could matter more than the fact that the world had just ripped out my soul?

I stayed silent. Still.

The footsteps didn’t fade. I knew he was still standing there, waiting like some obedient shadow. Minutes dragged, and then finally—silence.

Relief unfurled in my chest. Maybe now I’d have peace. Maybe now—

Another knock. Heavier. Deeper.

My blood ran cold.

My father.

“Open the door at once,” he barked.

Rage ignited inside me like a spark catching on gasoline. I shot up from the bed, stalking to the door, my hands clenched into fists. My voice shook as I shouted, “Just leave me the hell alone!”

A pause. Then his reply, colder than ice. “Open the door.”

I knew he wouldn’t stop. Not him. Not my father, who never accepted no for an answer. Not the man who thought he could bend me until I broke.

Fine. He wanted the door open? He would get it.

I yanked it open so hard the handle slammed against the wall. He stood there in his tailored suit, his eyes sharp, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, as always, Alessandro lingered in silence, unreadable.

“What is it?” I demanded, my voice rough, my body trembling from more than just exhaustion.

“Don’t use that tone with me, young lady,” my father snapped.

I sucked in a breath through my nose, forcing the words back, because the truth was, I didn’t have the energy for one of his power games. Not now.

But he wasn’t here to comfort me. He never was.

“You need to snap out of this,” he said sharply, his gaze cutting into me like knives. “You’re the Moretti heiress. I’m sorry your friend died, but we all die one day. You cannot afford to wallow.”

My stomach lurched. The way he said it—like Camilla was just some inconvenience. Like her death was just another item on his schedule.

His voice dropped, stern and final. “There’s a dinner tomorrow night, hosted for the Russians. You will attend.”

I blinked at him, disbelief crashing into rage. “I’m not interested.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t have a choice.”

The fire in me roared. “I just lost my best friend, and you’re acting like it’s nothing!” My voice cracked, the words breaking free raw and jagged. “My best friend!”

For a second, just a second, something flickered in his eyes. But then he turned away, like he couldn’t be bothered.

He took two steps down the hall before stopping, his back still to me. His voice carried over his shoulder, low and clipped. “Some things are not in our control.”

That was it. That was all he had to offer me.

My hands shook with fury. “I’m not going. No matter how much you force me, I’m not going.”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just said, flat and final, “We’ll see about that,” before walking away.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my chest heaving, my nails digging into my palms. Then my gaze shifted—straight into Alessandro’s.

He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t said a word. Just watched me with that unreadable expression, as if he could see every thought in my head.

Something inside me snapped.

The sight of him—my father’s shadow, his obedient soldier—made my rage boil over. I slammed the door in his face, the echo shaking the walls.

Then my body gave out.

I slid down against the wood, collapsing to the floor, burying my face in my hands. The sobs returned, violent and unstoppable, ripping through my chest until I could barely breathe.

I hated them all. My father, with his cold commands. Alessandro, with his silence. The entire world, for moving forward like nothing had changed.

But most of all, I hated myself—because no matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I cried, nothing was going to bring Camilla back.

And yet, as I sat there on the floor, shaking and broken, one thought burned through the grief, steady and unshakable.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Not to the dinner.

Not to the Russians.

Not into my father’s plans.

Not when Camilla’s blood still cried for justice.

That was my vow.

And no one—not my father, not Alessandro, not the world itself—was going to force me.