CHAPTER 111 – SHARDS AND GAMES

CHAPTER 111 – SHARDS AND GAMES
CHAPTER 111 – SHARDS AND GAMES

The sight of Vera standing there in that nightgown makes Aria’s stomach twist so violently it feels as though her insides have been knotted by invisible hands. Her teeth grind together with an audible click, the tension climbing up her jaw until it aches. The vision before her is unbearable, an insult dressed in silk. The urge rises fast, raw and unfiltered—she wants to lunge forward, grip Vera’s throat, and squeeze until all that mockery drains out of her eyes. What the hell had this woman been doing with Dominic? My Dominic. The words pulse in her head like a drumbeat, each repetition louder, heavier, impossible to drown.

Her fingers tighten around the glass she is holding, squeezing as though the thin object might absorb her fury. She does not realize until too late that the cup is fragile, delicate, a soft-walled piece of glass instead of something sturdy. Her grip snaps it.

Crack—shhhhhhatter.

The glass explodes in her hands, shards splintering in every direction. Tiny pieces scatter across the table, bouncing against the floor with little metallic pings. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, as a few slivers pierce her palm. Blood wells up almost instantly, red droplets threading across her skin. The crash jolts her back to the present. She stares at her bleeding hand as though it belongs to someone else, her breath locked in her chest.

Vera, just stepping into the kitchen, freezes. Her eyes widen in alarm as she witnesses the scene. “Oh my God,” she exclaims, rushing forward, her voice a rush of genuine panic. “What happened? Are you okay? Why the hell did you do that?”

She looks truly concerned, eyes darting between Aria’s face and her injured hand as though watching a child who has just done something reckless and dangerous. Her tone is reprimanding but laced with worry. And Aria hates it. The sight of Vera’s concern, the way she bends toward her with soft urgency—it feels like a mockery, like a dagger of false kindness.

You’re not supposed to care for me, Aria seethes silently. You’re not supposed to look at me like that. You’re not my friend. You’re my enemy. My mortal enemy.

But Vera does not pause long enough to care what Aria wants. She moves quickly toward a side cabinet, pulling out a compact first aid kit with practiced hands. “Okay,” she says, voice firm, professional. “This needs to be treated immediately. You don’t want glass shards staying inside, and you absolutely don’t want tetanus. Sit still—I’ll handle it.”

She returns swiftly, setting the kit on the counter, opening it with deft movements. She reaches for Aria’s hand, but Aria jerks back, her frown deepening.

“Thank you, but I can take care of myself,” Aria says, her tone clipped, biting. Her voice trembles with suppressed rage, though she masks it beneath cold defiance.

Vera halts, her hand hovering mid-air. Her brow furrows, one eyebrow lifting, her lips tightening in skepticism. “I sincerely doubt that. Look at your hand—it’s bleeding, and the glass is still stuck in there. You need to remove it before it gets worse. Let me help you. I’m good at this sort of thing.”

Aria glares at her, eyes narrowed, her frown carved deep into her face. Her silence stretches, bristling with hostility.

Vera tilts her head, watching her, unbothered by the sharpness directed her way. Then she speaks again, her tone softer but threaded with curiosity. “Seriously, I don’t understand what’s going on with you. Why do you hate me so much? I mean, I just got here. You don’t know me. But still… every time you look at me, it’s like you want me gone.”

Aria stiffens. She notices something in Vera’s eyes then—a flicker, a spark of something sly. There’s a teasing glint buried in her gaze, as if this entire performance is just another game, as if Vera is baiting her to explode, waiting for her reaction with quiet amusement.

Aria’s jaw tightens again. Her teeth grind until the pressure makes her head ache. Oh my God. Is this woman seriously trying to toy with me?

She bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to sting, the taste of iron bleeding across her tongue. Her fists tremble, her whole body brimming with the urge to lash out, but she forces herself to hold it down, to contain the madness bubbling inside.

Instead, she scoffs, a sharp sound, and shakes her head. Without a word, she snatches the first aid kit from the counter, clutching it like a shield, and turns on her heel. Her steps are brisk, determined, carrying her out of the kitchen and into the sitting room.

She drops onto the couch, sets the kit beside her, and opens it with rough, jerky movements. Vera follows at a slower pace, stepping lightly into the living room doorway. She does not intrude at first, only watching, her expression unreadable.

Aria works quickly, refusing to meet Vera’s gaze. She digs out the small shards lodged in her skin, wincing as she pries each one free. Blood smears across her palm, dripping into a tissue she presses hard against the wound. She cleans it with antiseptic, the sting making her flinch, then wraps the cut in gauze with fast, efficient motions.

By the time she finishes, her breathing is uneven, but her hands are steady. She exhales sharply, drops the box a few meters away, and leans back against the couch. Her chest rises and falls, the tension still etched across her posture.

Vera finally steps closer, her face composed, her voice calm. “Yeah, well,” she says casually, “you were right when you said you could handle it yourself.” Her tone is light, almost offhand.

But Aria does not respond. She lifts her eyes instead, fixing them on Vera with a glare that burns hotter than fire. It is not indifference she shows—it is pure, unfiltered loathing. The kind of stare that strips flesh from bone, the kind of look that says I want you gone, erased, obliterated.

Vera chuckles softly, shaking her head at the intensity directed her way. She lowers herself onto the couch beside Aria, folding her hands together in her lap, her fingers laced neatly. She studies her, tilting her head slightly, her voice laced with a strange combination of patience and playful mockery.

“You know,” Vera says, “for me to be this acquainted with you already—for me to protect you, to be kind to you, to literally stand here as part of my duty—you really shouldn’t be looking at me with such hatred. We’ve never met before this. We practically don’t know each other. So tell me, Aria. Why do you hate me so much?”

Aria’s gaze flickers, unwillingly caught. She sizes Vera up, her eyes scanning every feature, every curve, every infuriating mark of beauty. That supple, oval-shaped face with its perfectly carved cheekbones, those lips that beg to be kissed, those breasts that strain against the thin nightgown with shameless promise. And below, the swell of her hips, the curve of her ass—everything about her is designed to torment, to stir hunger, to remind Aria of exactly what Dominic sees when he looks at her.

Jealousy ignites, burning in a brutal wave at the pit of her stomach, rising through her like poison. It is sharp, merciless, impossible to contain.

Her throat tightens. She cannot speak. Instead, she scoffs again, sharp and brittle, and shakes her head. She rises abruptly from the couch, unwilling to let Vera see the full collapse of her composure. Without a word, she storms away, her steps heavy against the floor.

Vera watches her retreat, lips twitching, her hand rising to cover her mouth to suppress the laugh threatening to burst out. Her eyes glitter with amusement.

Oh my God, she thinks to herself, shaking her head in silent disbelief. This isn’t just obsession. No—this girl is in love with Dominic. Completely, irreversibly in love.