C121 Do You Love Me

Annabelle lay sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling as tears streamed sideways into her hair. They were hot, angry tears.

The kind that refused to be soothed, no matter how much she tried to calm herself.

She wiped them away furiously, but they kept coming, mocking her attempts to feel in control.

“Dante dear,” she muttered aloud, the memory of Natasha’s tinkling voice searing through her mind.

The way the redhead had said it was so casual and so familiar that it felt like a dagger twisting in her chest.

She had no idea he would like something so…cheesy.

Apparently, she knew nothing about the man!

Dante dear.

It echoed in her mind like an unforgiving refrain.

It was like a cruel melody she couldn’t escape.

She bit her lip until it hurt as she tried to silence the turmoil inside.

How could she have been so stupid?

She had berated herself all night, thinking she’d hurt him.

Hurt him!

The man was a damn fortress of steel.

He was a walking enigma with no heart to hurt.

“Someone who has no heart cannot be hurt,” she said firmly to the emptiness of her room, her voice shaky yet defiant.

But no matter how much she told herself that, the memories wouldn’t stop replaying.

Natasha stealing strawberries off his plate.

Laughing like they shared a private joke.

Dante smiling.

Smiling at her like the sun had graced his table.

Annabelle sat up, running her hands through her hair.

Her curls were a wild mess, much like her emotions.

She hated how vulnerable and small she felt.

“Why does it hurt this much?” she wondered bitterly.

Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and she stood abruptly, moving toward it like it was an opponent she needed to face.

Her puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back at her.

“You’re pathetic,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

She paced the room, her hands clenched into fists.

“It’s not Natasha’s fault,” she muttered.

She hated how effortlessly confident the woman was.

How the loud colours of her outfit and her bold hoop earrings had suited her perfectly.

“The kind of confident sexiness Dante probably drooled over,” Annabelle thought, her lips curling in disdain.

But she wouldn’t stoop to hatred.

No, Annabelle wasn’t the type to tear another woman down.

Natasha, for all her audacity, was probably just as much a victim of Dante’s charm as Annabelle was.

“Or maybe,” she muttered to herself, “She’s dying inside too. Maybe that’s why she’s all smash and run.”

The thought gave her a twisted sense of comfort.

Maybe Natasha wasn’t as untouchable as she seemed.

Maybe she did know that her man was an unfaithful man with many mistresses on the sides.

But no matter how much she tried to rationalise it, one fact stood glaringly clear in her mind: Dante was the problem.

Annabelle stopped pacing and took a deep breath.

“You won’t let him break you,” she said aloud, as though saying it made it true.

She wouldn’t sit here and let him make her feel like this.

She had to do something, even if it was just reclaiming the last shred of her dignity.

Her eyes flicked to the connecting door, and determination set in.

She had left that note on his bed.

That stupid, heartfelt note asking if he still wanted her to move in with him.

It was a mistake.

It was a stupid lapse in judgment, and she needed it back.

Without overthinking, she strode to the door.

She flung it open and stepped into his room.

The scent of him hit her immediately.

The blend of cedarwood, spice, and something distinctly Dante made her stomach twist.

Her eyes scanned the bed.

No note.

Her heart sank.

“Maybe he didn’t see it. Maybe he ignored it.”

She didn’t know which thought hurt more.

She moved closer to search the sheet.

Then she thought the cleaner had probably tucked it in with the sheets since the bed was made.

She knelt on the bed and tried to tuck her hands along the edges of the bed frames to see if she would feel anything.

No such thing.

While still kneeling on the bed like that, she then crouched to check under the bed.

With her ass lifted in the air, she looked at the shadowy underneath.

Maybe it had fallen during one of his trysts with Natasha.

The thought made her insides churn, but she forced herself to focus.

A slight sound made her freeze.

She looked towards his door and saw that it was still locked.

She turned back to the task at hand and thought she saw something.

Then she almost tumbled on her head as she heard, “What are you looking for?”

Slowly, she turned her head toward the connecting door and felt her blood drain.

Dante was there, leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed.

His voice was low, smooth, and sent a shiver down her spine.

Annabelle yelped as she quickly scrambled upright.

She flushed crimson as she realised the compromising position she’d been in, bent over like that.

Worse, his eyes were fixed on her ass when she looked back.

In fact, they still seemed like they were still fixed there with the way the molten intensity in them made her skin prickle.

She could practically feel his thoughts.

The cad!

“Oh no, you don’t,” she thought, straightening herself and stepping away from the bed.

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

“Nothing,” she said sharply.

“Nothing?” His lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes still burned. “You should know not to snoop through people’s things, Mia Bella. You might find something nasty.”

A shiver ran up her spine and she had no idea if it was in fear or something else.

Why the hell would he call her that when he had his woman downstairs probably thinking of his insatiable desires?

The thought of Natasha using those words makes Annabelle want to puke.

And she decided she didn’t have to stand around listening to the bastard.

Annabelle tried to sidestep him, moving toward the door, but he shifted, blocking her path. “Move,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

“Not until you answer my question,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.

“What question?!” she snapped in frustration.

She just wanted to leave with her pride intact, yet he wouldn’t even allow her to do that.

She wanted to leave before doing something stupid like asking him for explanations about what just happened downstairs like she had the right to.

Yet he would deny her the ability to even do that.

Oh, she hated him!

Then she was sure her hearing had gone bad as he asked matter-of-factly. “Do you love me?”

“What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Do you love me, Annabelle?”