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Antonio’s words cut her, chipped away at the frigid centre of her. She hated him then. Hated it that his words were unearthing her deepest fears. The fears she barely allowed herself to admit to owning. The fears that held a mirror up to herself while she threw her accusations at him.
Of course she was scared! She was terrified. Terrified of him using the information in the dossier and even more scared of what it would mean if he didn’t.
Because then she’d have to stay—really invest—wouldn’t she? Not just some giddy, excited fantasy feeling such as she’d been enjoying these last few hours. But the harder stuff—the things that would make her or break her. In that moment she was on the precipice. The edge of a giant cliff-face. One that meant she would have to finally place her trust in someone not to hurt her. Not to leave.
Had she done that? Had she really let her seventeen-year-old boyfriend go without giving him a chance? Was she doing the same again with Antonio?
Her head ached and her mind swam, and in that moment she clung to the only thing she had in front of her.
‘You want me to give what a chance? Your deal? The role of fake fiancée? Or could we actually be more than that, Antonio?’ she demanded.
It was as if they had become prize fighters, each taking the most painful chunk out of the other.
‘There’s just six days until the final meeting.’
It seemed neither was willing to admit just how far they’d come, just how much they meant to each other.
She shook her head, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, the hurt magnified by each fracture, as if punctured by the shards of itself.
‘If you can come up with this,’ she said, gesturing to the documents that had torn them apart, ‘then you can come up with an excuse as to where I am for Bartlett. But, Antonio,’ she said—her last warning, her last hope, ‘I’m telling you. There’s no coming back from this. If you do this you’ll be worse than your father. Because you know what you’re doing, what you’re risking, and just how many people you’re hurting.’
Antonio didn’t move while she retrieved her bags from the doorway to her bedroom. He didn’t react to the kiss she placed on his cold cheek and he didn’t say a word as she closed the door to the suite behind her.
Emma knew that it was the last time she would see Antonio. Oh, she was sure she would see pictures of him—might even happen upon him in person. But that person wouldn’t be the man she had fallen in love with. If he did this—if he used that folder—she would never see that man again.
CHAPTER TEN
ANTONIO HEARD THE pounding on his New York penthouse apartment door and honestly couldn’t tell if it was real or the manifestation of his hangover. Each strike followed the words that had been turning over and over in his mind since he last saw Emma.
You’ll be worse than your father.
They had become a mantra, a taunt, a final threat hovering over him. One that he couldn’t escape. Because he couldn’t help feeling that Emma might be right. That in seeking his revenge he would actually be worse than his father.
The thought scoured him from the inside out, carved away at the deep ache in his chest.
Reluctant to open his eyes, he turned over and promptly fell onto the floor. The sofa. He’d been on the sofa.
He heard the door swing open and a pair of expensive black leather shoes came to stand very, very close to his head. He heard a string of Greek swearing, fit to turn the air blue, and the shoes disappeared. Antonio groaned, knowing that he’d sunk pretty low this time.
He’d been back in New York for two days since returning from Argentina, and in that time he’d answered none of the phone calls from his office, despite the rising panic in his CFO’s tone. Instead he’d done nothing but drink and stare at the dossier on a woman he’d never met, might never meet, but who had come to represent the final blow to his relationship with Emma.
Antonio mustered the energy to roll onto his back, every muscle and brain cell protesting. Apart from his heart. His heart relished it, clearly deeming him worthy of such extreme levels of—
Ice-cold water crashed down on his head, the shock making him inhale quickly and deeply, taking half of the l
iquid into his lungs. He lurched up and bent over, choking and ready to kill Dimitri, holding a now empty jug.
‘I’ve seen you in some pretty bad states, but this is just pitiful.’
‘Get out.’
‘No.’ Dimitri held out a hand and hauled Antonio off the floor.
‘Coffee,’ was all about Antonio could manage to get out of his mouth.
‘Shower,’ Dimitri commanded.
It took a moment, but Antonio finally got himself off the floor and made his way through to the kitchen of his apartment, to find Dimitri manhandling a miniature saucepan on the stove.
