"Close the door, Adrian."
He does not move. Stands there in the doorway, hallway light still spilling around him.
"Close the door. Or I will close it for you."
Self-preservation wins over pride. He steps inside, lets the door click shut behind him. The sound is final. No witnesses now. Just two men and the choice Adrian made the moment he decided Chesca was property he could reclaim.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave." His composure rebuilds with each word. "This is effectively a diplomatic residence. My father—"
"Your father is not here."
"He has connections at every level of this government. Whatever you're planning, you're making a significant error in judgment."
I stand. One fluid motion.
His composure flickers. The way a candle gutters when someone opens a door.
"If this is about money, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. There's no need for—"
"I do not want your money."
"Then what exactly do you want?"
Let him talk. Let him cycle through his defenses. Charm. Father. Money. Condescension.
"I want you to understand something."
I move closer. He backs up. His shoulders hit the desk, laptop sliding an inch to the left. Papers scatter. Nowhere left to go.
"Angelina. Chesca. You do not get to touch them. You do not get to threaten them. You do not get to exist in the same world as them."
He blinks. Then, incredibly, he almost laughs.
"Angelina? This is aboutAngelina?"
The diplomatic mask slides back into place, secure as armor he believes is impenetrable. He straightens, finds his footing against the desk.
"She always was too emotional. I see she's found someone who shares that particular flaw."
I wait. Let the silence stretch. People fill silence. They always do.
"You know she's lying to you." His confidence grows with each word I do not say. "Whatever she's told you about our marriage, she has a gift for revisionist history. For playing the victim."
Playing the victim.That is what he told himself. While he was hurting her.
Still, I say nothing.
"Francesca is my daughter. I haverights." His voice hardens with the certainty of a man who has never truly lost anything. "Her uncle can't protect her forever, and neither can you."
"What did you call her?"
He blinks. "Francesca? That's her name. Or has cara forgotten to mention—"
Cara.
Her name for her. His pet name. The word that slides off his tongue like ownership.
My hand closes around his throat. I pin him to the desk in one motion. His laptop crashes to the floor. Papers fly.