Bulletproof Heart Finally Breaks

A week. An entire week without a word. Then tonight, he showed up at my door, reeking of whiskey.

"Bella." His voice was a low, rough growl. His eyes devoured me.

I sat up in bed. "Lorenzo? What are you..."

He didn't answer. He just launched himself at me.

He kissed me with a desperate hunger, like he was trying to devour me, to erase the last week from existence.

"Don't..." I tried to push him away, but my voice was a whisper.

His hands tore at my nightgown.

I should have clawed his eyes out. Demanded to know why he only craved me when he was drowning in whiskey.

But when his lips found my neck, when he slid inside me with the same perfect fit we’d shared for a decade...

When that familiar fire swept through me, all my resolve turned to ash.

Maybe... maybe he regrets it.

Maybe he finally realized what he was losing.

I closed my eyes and let him pull me into that familiar, dizzying spiral.

Every thrust was a frantic, punishing claim.

"Lorenzo..." I breathed his name against his ear.

He didn't answer. He just fucked me harder, like he was trying to brand himself back onto my soul.

It went on for a long time. So long, I thought time had stopped.

When it was over, I lay limp in his arms. His heart hammered against my chest, a frantic drumbeat that finally, finally slowed.

Then, a phone buzzed.

Lorenzo’s body went rigid.

He reached for the phone on the nightstand. The moment he saw the name on the screen, all the softness vanished.

"Jules," he answered, his voice instantly gentle, careful.

My blood ran cold.

Her again. My stepsister.

"Baby, what's wrong? ...Don't cry, I'm listening... When did you get here? I'm on my way."

He sat up, his back to me.

That soft tone. That careful, protective way he spoke... he'd never used it with me. Not once.

After he hung up, Lorenzo turned to look at me. The drunken haze in his eyes had vanished, replaced by their usual icy calm.

"I have to go," he said, pulling on his clothes.

"Where?" I clutched the sheet around me.

"To handle something." He buttoned his shirt, avoiding my eyes. "And about the engagement party... I'll arrange for a bigger one. To make it up to you."

Make it up to me.

The words were a slap in the face.

So this was just a drunken fuck. A need.

And now that he was sober, he was running to her.

"When?" I heard myself ask.

"Our anniversary. Seven days from now." He pulled on his jacket and planted a business-like kiss on my forehead. "Goodnight, Bella."

The click of the door was deafening in the silent room.

I sat there, his scent still on my skin, my heart a block of ice.

There won't be another engagement party, Lorenzo.

The memories flooded back.

The first time I saw Lorenzo Moretti, he’d just taken over the family.

Everyone said he was a monster, a man with a heart of stone who would never love anyone.

I didn't believe them.

I spent a full year chasing him.

From New York's most expensive restaurants to private beaches in Italy, I showed up everywhere, a beautiful, relentless ghost in his life.

"Isabella Rossi," he’d finally snarled, cornering me against a wall. "What the fuck do you want?"

"You," I said, my voice clear. "I want you to love me."

He looked at me like I was a stupid kid.

But I won.

One night, on a whim, I said I wanted to see the northern lights in Alaska.

Lorenzo didn't even blink. He had a private jet waiting to fly me across the country just to satisfy my crazy idea.

"Why are you so good to me?" I’d asked, my head on his shoulder.

"Because you're worth it," he'd said.

Back then, I thought that was love.

Until the engagement party a week ago.

All of New York's elite were there, waiting to see us.

I stood in my custom gown, waiting for my fiancé.

Instead, his underboss, Marco, handed me a note: "Emergency. Party's off."

Every eye in the room was on me. Pity, mockery, satisfaction.

I kept my smile perfect and raised my glass. "Lorenzo always puts business first. It's why I love him."

Inside, I was shattered.

I fled back to our apartment, desperate for an explanation.

But outside our bedroom door, I heard a voice I'll never forget.

"You've been with Isabella all this time," Juliana purred, "but the garden at the estate you built for her is filled with lilies... my favorite flower. What is it you even love about her?"

Then came Lorenzo's answer, thick with lust. "Her eyes. They're just like yours."

My hand trembled as I pushed open the door. I saw my stepsister, Juliana, panting in the arms of my fiancé.

They'd been kissing.

Ten years. And in all that time, he'd never truly kissed me. Not on the lips. Not once. No matter how many times I’d begged, pleaded, or tried to steal one.

"Bella, how did you..." Lorenzo stood up, ready to spin a lie.

I just turned and walked away.

I ignored his texts. I sent his calls to voicemail.

I couldn't face it—that the man I loved was stolen by my stepsister. The daughter of the woman who broke up my family.

Until tonight, when he came to me drunk.

And now, silence again.

I picked up my phone and dialed my mother.

"Bella? It's so late..."

"Mom," my voice was soft, but hard as steel. "I'll do it. I'll marry into the Romano family. One week from now."