I stand frozen, staring at the empty doorway where Marco disappeared.
What the hell just happened?
My mind reels, trying to make sense of the last sixty seconds. He had me where he wanted me. So why the hell did he let me go?
This isn’t like Marco at all. He’s the kind of man who fights all the way. How did he give up so easily?
What game is he playing now?
My hands shake. Everything about this feels wrong.
Is this some kind of reverse psychology? Mind games. Another layer of manipulation designed to keep me off-balance, keep me guessing. Make me think he’s vulnerable when really he’s just setting up the next move.
The bastard.
My anger ignites like gasoline meeting flame. White-hot rage that burns away the confusion, the doubt, the treacherous part of me that almost believed his act.
Because that’s what it was. An act.
The defeated posture, the broken voice, the way he couldn’t look at me—all calculated. All designed to make me lower my guard, make me think he actually gives a shit about my feelings.
Well, fuck that.
And fuck him for thinking I’m stupid enough to fall for it.
The pistol he handed me still weighs heavily in my hand. His gesture was meant as surrender—maybe trust. But all I see is the same cold steel I pointed at his heart.
I check the chamber. Loaded.
Good. I want answers.
I stride through the doorway. The foyer stretches before me, silent except for the distant sounds of my retreating army. But I’m not interested in that war anymore.
I’m interested in the truth.
The hallway to the east wing beckons—Marco’s private quarters, his study, the places he goes when he wants to brood. If he’s playing wounded, that’s where I’ll find him.
My footsteps quicken. I’m a loaded gun walking—primed, aimed, burning for a target. Each step sharpens my rage, tightens my focus, numbs the part of me that still hurts.
This is Marco Bianchi. The man who turned lies into vows and used my love as leverage.
The man who married me without ever admitting he knew exactly who I was.
Who let me fall in love with him while burying the truth about my parents’ murder.
Who spent months letting me believe I could hurt him—just to prove, in the end, that I never stood a chance.
Of course this is another manipulation.
Of course he’s setting up the next phase of whatever sick game he’s playing.
The hallway curves ahead.
The sound reaches me before I see him. It makes me slow my pace and tilt my head to listen.
Breathing. Ragged, uneven breathing.
I round the corner and stop dead.
Marco sits on the floor with his back against the wall, head in his hands. His shoulders shake with each breath, and when he drags his fingers through his hair, I glimpse his face.
He looks…broken.
Not the brokenness of a performance, but genuine devastation.
Raw.
Ugly.
Real.
My certainty wavers. Just for a second.
But no. I won’t be fooled again.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, raising the pistol. “Act two of your little performance?”
His head snaps up, green eyes finding mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then something flickers across his face—not surprise, not fear, but something that looks almost like relief.
“Aria.” My name sounds broken in his mouth. “You should go.”
“Should I?” I step closer, weapon trained on his chest. “Because five minutes ago, you had me exactly where you wanted me. Completely at your mercy. And then you just…walked away.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even try to stand.
“So what is this, Marco? What’s the next move in your master plan? Make me think you’re having some kind of breakdown, so I’ll lower my guard? Make me feel sorry for you?”
“There is no next move.” His voice is hollow. “I told you. It’s over.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Right. It’s over when you say it’s over. How convenient.”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand.” I take another step closer, anger burning hotter with each word. “You think you can manipulate me forever. Make me dance to your tune, react exactly how you want me to react. Well, I’m done dancing, Marco.”
He finally pushes himself to his feet. But he doesn’t try to disarm me, doesn’t reach for a weapon of his own. Just stands there, swaying slightly, looking like a man who’s lost everything.
The performance continues.
“I know what you did, Marco.” I press the barrel of the gun to his chest, right over his heart.
“You played me—again. The weapons deal with the Russians, the intel on your compound… You let me build an army just to watch it burn.”
His eyes close, and I see his throat work as he swallows. “Yes.”
The admission hits me like a slap. Even though I was expecting it, hearing him confirm it sends fresh rage coursing through my veins.
“You bastard. You sick, twisted bastard.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Letting me think I actually had a chance to finally get justice for my parents.”
“No.” His eyes open, meeting mine with startling intensity. “I hated every second of it.”
“Liar.”
“I hated watching you gather weapons to use against me. Hated knowing you were planning my destruction. Hated that every move you made was leading us to this moment.”
His hand comes up slowly, covering mine where I grip the pistol. Not trying to take it away, just…holding on.
“But I had to know,” he whispers. “If you could choose me. If, when everything was stripped away, you could choose love over vengeance.”
“And now you know.” My finger tightens on the trigger. “I choose vengeance.”
“And this is what hurts the most,” he says, his voice breaking. “I thought what we had meant something to you. I let you in deeper than anyone, Aria. I gave you parts of me no one’s ever touched. And now you’re standing there, looking me in the eye… wanting me dead.”
The words hang between us like a wound neither of us knows how to close. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, not to calm me—but like he’s memorizing the feel of me one last time.
“Then do it,” he says softly. “Kill me, Aria. End this. Take your justice.”
I stare at him, searching for the catch. But all I see is exhaustion. Defeat. A man who’s run out of moves.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” He steps closer, pressing himself more firmly against the gun barrel. “To make me pay for my father’s sins. For my lies. For every moment of pain I’ve caused you.”
“Marco—”
“I love you.” The words tumble out, raw and desperate. “God help me, I love you more than my own life. More than my empire. More than anything I’ve ever built or owned or conquered.”
My hands start to shake.
“I love the way you fight back, even when you’re terrified. I love your stubborn pride, your refusal to bow to anyone. I love that you’re brave enough to point a gun at me when I deserve it.”
“Stop—”
“I love that you’re carrying my child. I love that you’re strong enough to protect the baby from me if you have to.” His voice breaks. “I love that you came back for answers instead of just walking away.”
Tears blur my vision. The pistol wavers in my grip.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. “I’m sorry for the lies. Sorry for the pain. Sorry for being my father’s son instead of the man you deserved.”
“I hate you,” I choke out, but the words lack conviction.
“I know. You should. I am a monster. I’ve earned your hatred a hundred times over.”
“I hate that I still love you.”
“I know that, too.”
The confession tears out of me like a physical wound. Because it’s true. Despite everything, some part of me will always love Marco Bianchi.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper. “I can’t keep fighting you and loving you and hating myself for both.”
“Then don’t.” His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize were falling. “Shoot me, Aria. End it. Set yourself free.”
The pistol shakes harder in my grip. My finger hovers over the trigger, muscles tensed for the final squeeze.
The muzzle digs into his chest. One breath—mine or his—and it’ll be over. But I don’t pull the trigger. I can’t.
God help me, I can’t.
