The nausea in my stomach intensified by a hundredfold.
Why couldn’t I feel anger inside me? Why was I fighting an array of emotions—stupid, stronger feelings that urged me to run after him, to explain the situation, to tell him that he was still the only one for me, that I wanted him more than anything else—even when I resisted in my mind?
I wanted to tell him that, in spite of his cheating, I couldn’t stop loving him, and I had no idea why. The last thing I remembered was the awful sickness as I dashed to the bathroom to empty the remnants of my stomach.
Love is an unpredictable thing. It never listens to you. It doesn’t follow your commands. It is like a stubborn cat, eager to chase the next running mouse and to catch it for a trophy. I felt like that mouse, with a sense of ominous, impending doom hanging over my head and no knowledge of which direction to take. I was running in fear, hoping that one day I’d bump into the door that would lead me to freedom, and Jett wouldn’t be waiting on the other side, ready to capture me, ready to make me fall for his wicked charm again. With his sexy smile and his green eyes, he had enslaved my body like no other man. I had no wish, no desire, and certainly no need to fall blindly into the next trap, and Jett Mayfield certainly was one.
Our entire relationship had been so intense that I knew it couldn’t be healthy for my soul. The moment he had kissed me, I had instantly wanted him, as though my body was programmed to react to him, just as my mind couldn’t stop thinking about sex when he wasn’t around.
I felt as if I was lost in a dark mausoleum, and he was like the phantom of the opera, shrouded in darkness, with the power to sing to me in my sleep and appear in my dreams. He only had to speak my name in that sexy Southern accent of his, and I would turn to butter in his hands.
I laughed darkly at the comparison of Jett with the phantom; the irony wasn’t lost on me. I just hoped I wouldn’t end in a straightjacket. After all, my love and desire for him not only turned me blind; it also rendered me insane.
Sitting in bed with my arms wrapped around me, I had absolutely no clue what was going on. Shouldn’t he feel some guilt for kissing Tiffany? And why was he so angry anyway? My mind fought to come up with an explanation as to what had gone wrong. Jett hadn’t seemed to feel particularly guilty about the fact that I had seen them. Instead, he had been furious. Call it wishful thinking, but I had imagined he’d feel repentant, sorry for all the things he had done, maybe even try to conjure up a bunch of convincing lies. I wouldn’t even have been surprised if he had fled the moment a conflict arose, because aren’t men supposed to be enemies of difficult chitchats, accusations, and drawn-out drama?
Any sort of reaction would have pleased me more than Jett demanding an explanation and then leaving angry, as if he wasn’t to blame and I was the one with the loose screw.
I snorted.
It wasn’t at all the Jett I knew—calm and direct. The man who had built one of the most prestigious real estate businesses in the world from scratch. The man who had hardly broken a sweat when racing through the winding roads of Italy’s mountains, with pursuers hot on our tail. Yet, the mere thought that I believed I slept with someone other than him—even though, in my mind, it had been just a dream—had hurt and enraged him more than anything. That would have been reasonable if it weren’t for the fact that he had met Tiffany behind my back. I could only guess it had been his guilt speaking.
The rage had been etched in his flaming eyes, which morphed into a wildfire when I suggested he might want to kill me to get his hands on the Lucazzone estate.
Oh, my god, the rage—just because I suggested he might want to kill me to get his hands on the estate. I shook my head. It wasn’t even that farfetched. The news was rife with dark stories of murder and betrayal out of greed. Why wouldn’t I assume the worst when his brother was a killer and Jett had been visiting him in prison? He had told me a lie once. I chose to believe him, and he did it again.
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. It was the only explanation I had, given the fact that Jett had refused to share his reasons for keeping secrets. All he had to do was answer my questions. He refused and begged for undeserved trust instead. The fact that he wouldn’t be honest annoyed me; it implied that I was right, strengthening my need to keep my distance from him. He had too much power over me, and I needed a second perspective.
I retrieved my cell phone from the nightstand and texted the only sane person I knew: Sylvie. As her best friend, it was my duty to tell her everything before Jett did. The last thing I needed was for her to side with him. I texted: