115

115
The penthouse smelled of jasmine perfume, stale brandy, and regret. Antonio was returning to his penthouse, where Alejandra had been staying since she left Vincenzo’s. 

Alejandra sat slouched on the floor, her silk robe wrinkled, slipping halfway off one shoulder, knees drawn to her chest. A glass teetered near her ankle, almost empty. The mirrored coffee table held a mess of powders and shattered pride—two fresh lines of cocaine untouched, as if she were daring the world to tell her not to.

Her mascara had bled into the hollows beneath her eyes, smudged from the tears she wouldn't admit to crying. 

The front door opened, and Antonio stepped inside, stopping cold when he saw her. Alejandra leaned over, inhaling the last of it in one practiced move. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted.

“Alejandra,” he said, softly but firmly.

She didn’t look up.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she whispered. “Isn’t that poetic?”

Antonio dropped his keys and came closer. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Self-care,” she slurred, lifting the glass in a mock toast before draining the last drop. “I’m rebuilding my self-worth one gram at a time.”

He knelt beside her, gently trying to take the glass. She pulled it away, slow and deliberate, glaring at him with a crooked grin.

“He threw me out, Antonio. Like I was nothing. Me.”

Her voice cracked on that last word—not from weakness, but fury. Ferocious, woman-scorned fury.

“I gave up everything,” she hissed. “I gave up my life, my father, my drugs, my power… I let him touch me with his cold hands and dead heart, and for what?”

Antonio was quiet, watching her with something between pity and awe.

“For what?” She screamed, slamming the glass to the floor where it shattered. “So he could shove his whore into my life? Into my house? Into my marriage?”

She was shaking now, not from the high, but from the humiliation. From being unwanted. From the realization that no matter how hard she fought, she wasn’t enough to be loved—not by Vincenzo.

Antonio reached for her hand, but she yanked it away.

“Don’t touch me like you understand. You want to be in Vincenzo’s shadow so bad, you don’t even care that I’m breaking.”

“I do care,” Antonio said, low and hoarse. “You’re not broken, Alejandra. You’re just mad as hell.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time, there was no glamour, no seduction—just rawness.

“Damn right I am.”

She stood unsteadily, brushing cocaine residue from her thighs.

“I’m angry, not afraid. Not of Vincenzo. Not of the press. And not of my father.”

Antonio blinked. “He won’t—?”

“He will put me back into that rehab,” she snapped. “He loves me. I’m the only thing he’s ever loved.” Her voice turned venomous. “But Vincenzo’s a stain he was willing to tolerate for peace. Now that peace is over.”

Antonio watched her as she paced barefoot across the marble floor, dragging her fingers along the wall like she needed something to steady herself.

“I’m not running,” she said. “Not from Vincenzo. Not from that little tramp and her bastard. I’m going to take everything they think they’ve won… and break it.”

Antonio moved closer. “Then let me help.”

Alejandra turned slowly to face him, a glimmer of the devil returning to her eyes.

“Oh, Antonio,” she whispered, her voice like silk over steel. “You already are.”

Antonio had said nothing for minutes—just watched her. Her meltdown had evolved into a kind of cold clarity, the dangerous kind born from rage wrapped in pain.

She finally broke the silence.

“You’ve been talking to the Glaziers.”

Antonio stiffened.

She turned to him, her voice sharp. “Don’t bother denying it. I saw the call logs. Julian. I always knew they had someone on the inside.”

Antonio exhaled, jaw tightening. “You said you wanted Vincenzo to fall.”

“I said I wanted her to fall,” she corrected, stepping forward. “I want to burn the illusion that she belongs in his world. But I never said I’d burn Vincenzo with it.”

Antonio’s expression darkened. “They’re offering support—resources. You think you can bring down a man like Vincenzo without allies?”

Alejandra scoffed. “I am the ally. I’m his wife—was.” Her voice faltered briefly, but she recovered with venom. “I have more dirt on him than the Glaziers ever will.”

“Then use it.”

She took a shaky breath, the high ebbing slowly, revealing the jagged edge beneath.

“I want to see her cry, Antonio. I want to see him suffer,” she said, voice low. “But not like this. Not by their hands.”

Antonio looked at her—really looked. The bitterness. The fear behind her bravado. The love she couldn’t bury.

“You still love him,” he said quietly.

Alejandra turned away. “Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I don’t know what real love feels like. I just know it’s not enough.”

Antonio crossed the room and gripped her wrist gently. “Then tell me what you want.”

She turned, eyes sharp again.

“I want to destroy everything she thinks makes her worthy. But not with blood. Not with the Glaziers. Not with a bullet in Vincenzo’s head.”

Antonio let go, a heaviness clouding his face.

“So what then?”

Alejandra walked to the window, staring down at the street like it might give her answers.

“I want him to look at her and see me. I want her to feel the weight of knowing she’ll never replace me. And I want him to wonder, every day, if losing me was the worst decision he ever made.”

Antonio didn’t reply.

She turned back to him slowly.

“If you’re with them… you’re against me. And if you’re against me,” she said, stepping closer until their faces almost touched, “you’re against Vincenzo. I want him back after all these.”

“And your father?” Antonio asked.

“I will talk to him… If he gets involved in this with the Glaziers, Vincenzo will get hurt.”

Antonio clenched his jaw but nodded.

“I’ll cut them off.”

A small, cold smile tugged at her lips.

“Good.”

She picked up the second line of cocaine and stared at it for a long moment—then brushed it off the table with her hand.

“What about me?” Antonio’s voice fell as he asked. She was one of the reasons why he was seeking his brother's downfall, and she was still choosing him?

“This is nothing… Antonio. You want the throne, and I want that bitch out.” She responded coldly. 

“Alejandra…” He called out while she walked back to him, placing a hand across his chest. 

“We will figure this out, Antonio.” She leaned in and took his lips, kissing him like he was all that mattered to her, and Antonio again fell like he always did.

The kiss wasn’t tender. It was fire. Feral. Hungry. Her hands tangled in his hair as if trying to drown the echo of Vincenzo’s rejection. Antonio responded with equal heat, gripping her waist and pulling her against him, lips crashing, teeth grazing, and breath caught between mouths.

They stumbled, colliding with the wall, the sound of her gasp echoing off the marble.

“I’m not broken,” she whispered again, breathless now, her mouth against his jaw, his throat. “Say it.”

“You’re not,” he growled, pinning her wrists gently above her head. “You never were.”

Their mouths met again, more desperate this time—pain disguised as passion. Her robe slid off one shoulder, and he kissed the curve of it, her breath hitching.

Alejandra didn’t want his love. He knew, but he couldn’t hold back. The woman melted his soul completely. 

She moaned his name, low and throaty, lips at his ear.

"Make love to me.” She whispered. 

That was all it took before he pulled down the robe, reached down, and carried her to the bed.