Chapter 33- A Kiss of Grief

Chapter 33- A Kiss of Grief
ARIA’S POV

“Dad, please. Not again.”

The words come out smaller than I mean them to—shaky, frayed at the edges, barely holding together under the weight of everything I’m trying to swallow. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like someone who’s already been broken, trying desperately to keep the pieces from falling any further apart.

“I just want to be alone,” I whisper. “I just want to mourn my friend in peace. Why won’t you leave me alone?”

My father’s expression doesn’t move. Not even a flicker. His eyes, that same cold gray I used to think meant strength, look at me like I’m an inconvenience he doesn’t have time for. The rain is still dripping off my coat, leaving a small puddle at my feet, but he doesn’t notice—or maybe he just doesn’t care.

He straightens, his voice smooth, precise, and utterly heartless.
“She’s gone, Aria. She’s dead. There’s nothing you—or anyone—can do about that.”

For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe. His words slice through me cleanly, efficiently, the way a surgeon’s knife cuts through flesh. He says it like a fact. Like the weather. Like he’s discussing a business deal and not my best friend lying in the ground we just left behind.

Something inside me trembles, then hardens.

He’s wrong.

There is something I can do. I can find the man who did this. I can make him pay. I can give Camilla the justice no one else will fight for. But I can’t say that out loud. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’d only call it foolish, reckless, weak.

So I bite down on the words, so hard I taste blood.

He adjusts his cufflinks, the faint glint of his watch catching the light. “I need you to be on your best behavior at the dinner tomorrow night,” he says simply, as if the world hasn’t just shattered around us. “The Russians will be there, and I expect you to represent this family accordingly.”

My head snaps up. “This again?” My voice cracks, thick with disbelief. “I thought I already told you—I’m not going.”

“And I thought I already told you,” he replies, tone clipped, “you don’t have a choice.”

The calmness in his voice infuriates me more than any shouting ever could. He’s not even angry. He’s… indifferent. Detached. Like I’m just a soldier refusing orders. Like my grief is something he can command away.

Something inside me burns hotter. “You can’t just—” I start, but the words choke me halfway through. There’s too much sitting on my tongue. Too much I want to scream, and none of it will come out right.

So instead, I turn away.

I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. If I stay one more second in this room with him, I’ll explode. I’ll say something I can’t take back.

My shoes slip slightly against the marble as I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. My father calls my name once—sharp, warning—but I don’t stop. I don’t even look back.

I just run.

By the time I reach the landing, my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I’m almost at my room when his voice drifts up from below.

“Alessandro,” he says, his tone commanding. “Follow her.”

The sound of that name freezes me mid-step.

No. No, not him. Not now.

I grip the banister so tightly my knuckles ache. For a moment, I hope I imagined it. But then I hear it—the steady, measured footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, deliberate, unhurried. Each one a reminder that I’ll never truly be alone in this house.

I reach my door, hand on the handle, ready to slam it shut and lock him out—but something stops me.

Anger.

The kind that blinds. The kind that makes your pulse throb in your throat. The kind that turns grief into fire.

I spin around.

He’s almost at the top of the stairs, his black suit still immaculate, his expression perfectly calm. Not a drop of emotion touches his face. He looks like the same unshakable wall he’s always been—cold, silent, obedient.

And suddenly, I can’t stand it.

“You’re all heartless!” The words rip out of me before I can stop them. My voice echoes down the hallway, sharp and trembling. “All of you! So cold, so cruel—acting like my best friend was just another life!”

He stops. His jaw tightens slightly, but he says nothing.

That silence—the same damn silence he always hides behind—makes something in me snap.

I walk toward him. Fast. Angry.

“You think this doesn’t matter?” I shout, my voice cracking. “You think I can just wake up tomorrow and pretend like she never existed? Like she wasn’t—” My throat closes around the word. “—like she wasn’t everything?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with those unreadable eyes that have haunted me since the day he became my father’s shadow. I want to hit him. I want to break that perfect mask he wears, to make him feel something—anything.

So I do the only thing I can.

I hit him.

My fists collide with his chest, once, twice—then again and again, each one harder than the last. “You’re all monsters!” I cry, the tears burning down my face. “All of you!”

He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t grab my wrists or push me away. He just stands there—letting me pound against him, my fists shaking, my body trembling with every breath.

I hit him until my arms ache. Until my voice breaks into sobs. Until I can’t see through the tears.

Then something shifts.

My hits weaken, turning into shoves, then into something softer. My hands stay pressed against his chest, my forehead resting there as my body crumbles under the weight of it all. My sobs echo in the empty hallway, ugly and broken.

“I hate you,” I whisper, even though it sounds more like a plea than a curse. “I hate you all.”

He doesn’t respond. His hands stay at his sides, still and unmoving, as if he’s carved out of stone. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palms—calm, unshaken, maddeningly steady while mine races out of control.

I look up.

His eyes are darker up close, shadowed by something I can’t name. He’s so close I can see the tiny raindrops still clinging to his lashes, the faint line of tension running along his jaw.

“Heartless,” I whisper again. “You’re heartless.”

And before my brain can catch up—before I can stop myself—something reckless takes over.

I rise onto my toes, my fingers curling into his shirt, and I pull him down, kissing him.

It’s wild. Messy. Desperate. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission, that isn’t soft or gentle or sane. It’s fire meeting ice, rage meeting silence. It’s everything I’ve been trying not to feel exploding at once.

For a split second, he doesn’t move. His breath catches, his body rigid under my hands. Then, as if some invisible thread snaps inside him, he reacts.

He grabs my waist, pulling me against him so fast I barely have time to think. The world tilts. The door behind me slams open, hitting the wall with a sharp crack, and before I know it—we’re inside.

And the door slam shut.