Chapter 8

Hailey’s POV

Since the brunch, I haven't stepped outside my house and the silence was beginning to drive me insane.

Three whole days and not a word from Santino Blackwood. No calls. No messages. Not like I actually wanted to talk to him. It felt strange, like I was waiting for something I shouldn’t be waiting for. Like standing in the middle of a storm that refused to happen.

My phone lay face down on the bed beside me. I stared at it for too long before pushing it away. “Pathetic,” I muttered.

I sat in front of my vanity, watching my reflection as my stylist pinned the last strand of my hair into a sleek twist.

Tonight was another one of those ridiculous fancy events my father lived for. A “charity gala” filled with rich men pretending to care and women pretending to smile. The whole elite circle would be there and so would Santino.

I didn’t want to go, but my father had ordered it. And in our house, orders weren’t suggestions.

“Miss Hailey, your dress is ready,” the maid said softly from the door.

I stood up and slipped into the fiery red gown that shimmered under the light. It hugged my figure in all the right places, slit running high enough to make any man stare. I looked at myself in the mirror hair swept into a bun, red lips, sharp eyes. I looked dangerous. Exactly how I wanted.

 Let them talk.

I walked downstairs, the sound of my heels echoing through the hall. My mother was waiting in the living room, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She looked beautiful, as always soft curls brushing her shoulders, a pale gold dress that complimented her caramel skin. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. It never did anymore.

Her Spanish accent still lingered after years of living here. “Mi corazón,” she whispered as she looked at me. “You look… stunning.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Her eyes darted toward the stairs where my father was descending. Immediately, her shoulders stiffened.

My father was dressed in an expensive suit, the kind that screamed power. His face was hard, his jaw sharp, his eyes cold. “Let’s move,” he said. Not a compliment. Not even a glance at me or my mother.

Just commands. Always commands.

The car ride was silent. My mother sat beside me, her hands trembling slightly on her lap. My father was on his phone, barking short replies to whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the other side. I stared out the window at the passing city lights, my stomach tight with anger.

He didn’t even pretend to be human anymore.

---

The gala was at a luxury hotel downtown chandeliers dripping with gold, marble floors shining bright enough to see your reflection. Men in tuxedos and women in glittering gowns moved around like peacocks showing off feathers.

I hated and loved every second of it.

The moment we stepped inside, my father’s mood changed. He became charming, smiling, shaking hands, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It disgusted me.

My mother followed him like a shadow, quiet and elegant, always two steps behind. She’d learned that’s where she was safest behind him.

I, on the other hand, refused to play that game. I stood apart, pretending to sip champagne, my eyes scanning the room.

And then I felt it. That familiar prickling on the back of my neck.

I didn’t even need to look. I already knew.

Santino Blackwood.

He stood near the far end of the hall, surrounded by a small crowd of men in black suits. His tall frame, broad shoulders, sharp jaw all of it commanded attention. But it wasn’t his looks that made people nervous. It was the way he carried himself like he owned the room, like everyone else was just decoration.

His eyes found mine across the distance.

My heart skipped, stupidly.

He looked devastating in a black tuxedo, the crisp shirt beneath catching the light. But it was his gaze that did it calm, steady, dangerous. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. That stare alone could make you forget how to breathe.

I tore my eyes away first.

---

People started to approach me one by one, fake smiles on their painted faces.

“Oh, Hailey, darling! The future Mrs. Blackwood,” one woman cooed, dripping in diamonds. “You must be so proud. Such a match!”

I smiled tightly. “Thrilled,” I said, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

Another leaned closer, her perfume making my head spin. “They say he’s quite the man, your fiancé. Charming… but dark. Be careful, dear.”

Dark?. Her tone was almost warm with a tinge of warning

I didn’t get to think about it long because a familiar voice spoke behind me, smooth and slow.

“Dark?”

I turned. Santino stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey. “You make me sound like a ghost, Mrs. Langford,” he said to the woman. His tone impolite and his eyes deadly.

She laughed nervously and excused herself.

Then his eyes turned to me.

“Miss Carter,” he said. “Or should I say fiancée?”

I folded my arms. “Don’t push it.”

He stepped closer, just enough to make my pulse quicken. “You look… vivid tonight.”

“Is that your way of saying red suits me?”

“It’s my way of saying I can see right through the act,” he said quietly.

My breath caught. “What act?”

“The pretending,” he murmured. “You pretend not to care, not to feel, not to want. It’s almost adorable, really.”

“I don’t pretend,” I snapped. “I genuinely can’t stand you.”

His smile was small, almost dangerous. “Liar.”

I wanted to slap that smirk off his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re predictable,” he said, eyes glinting. “Always fighting. Always hiding.”

“Go to hell,” I muttered.

“Already there, sweetheart,” he said. “You just joined me.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, but my father’s voice boomed across the room, calling Santino over, I watched his lips twitch slightly.

Santino leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “We’ll continue this later.”

I watched him walk away, tall, calm, perfectly composed. Every woman in the room stared after him, and every man looked uncomfortable.

I hated that my heart beat faster

…

At the bar, I ordered another drink something stronger this time. My mother was still standing beside my father, smiling faintly when spoken to, nodding at people she didn’t know.

Her smile looked painted on. Her eyes, tired. I could see the faint purple shadow under one of them, still healing from his last outburst. I felt my throat tighten.

I’d begged her to leave before. She always said the same thing. I can’t, mi corazón. You don’t understand him like I do.

But I did. I understood him perfectly.

He was a monster who wore a perfect suit.

I turned back to my drink, trying not to think about it. The ice clinked softly in the glass as I swirled it.

Then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Miss Carter?”

It was a young waiter. He looked nervous. “This is for you,” he said, holding out a folded piece of paper.

I frowned. “From who?”

He shook his head quickly. “I don’t know, ma’am. A woman handed it to me and left.”

I took it and unfolded it under the counter, my curiosity prickling.

The handwriting was hurried, almost shaky.

> Be careful of him.

He’s not what he seems.

Leave while you still can.

My chest tightened.

I read it again. And again.

The words blurred slightly as a cold shiver ran down my spine.

Who was “him”? My father? Santino? Both?

I looked up instinctively, scanning the hall, trying to see who might be watching me. Everyone was laughing, drinking, gossiping. Nothing looked suspicious but everything suddenly felt wrong.

My eyes found Santino again. He was talking to my father now, his hand resting casually in his pocket, a faint smile on his lips. He looked normal. Too normal.

But his gaze flicked toward me just for a second and my stomach dropped.

It was the kind of look that said he already knew.

…

The night dragged on with fake laughter and empty speeches. My father was in his element, shaking hands, promising deals. My mother stayed beside him like a porcelain doll perfect posture, faint smile, no voice.

And I stood there, pretending not to care, pretending the warning note didn’t exist, pretending Santino’s gaze didn’t burn holes into me every time I moved.