Page 81 of Redline
I close my eyes, leaning my head back and for a second, I’m not by the pool. I’m back in that study, the ring burning a hole atop my father’s desk.
“Dad was looking for you,”Luka said, his brows pinched as I arrived home late last night.“He wants you in his study. Immediately.”
I remember the way the hallway felt—thicker, quieter, as if the walls were built to ensure the mess of the world couldn't reach my father. I remember the smell of leather and old money. The scent of someone who has never lost a negotiation.
And I remember Sienna.
She stood by his desk like a piece of high-end decor, one hip cocked, expression calm. Smug. I hadn’t seen her since Carter—since the world tilted and I stopped answering the calls I didn’twant to hear. I thought silence was a shield; I didn't realize it was a countdown.
“You’re emotional,”my father had said, his voice a smooth, terrifying silk.“That has always been your problem, Dominic. You believe you can play at being a man, doing whatever you like, and the consequences will simply… evaporate.”
He didn't look angry. He looked bored. He looked like a person who’d already won.
Then he tapped a single finger on the desk. A gavel falling.“You made a mistake. And I am, as usual, cleaning it up.”
Sienna didn’t speak. She didn't have to. She just moved her hand—a slow, deliberate drift to her stomach. She splayed her fingers there, claiming a space that didn't need claiming unless she wanted me to see the brand she was putting on my life.The realization hit me like a physical blow to the lungs: a Valerio heir. A permanent link. A door slamming shut on every choice I thought I still had.
My father reached into the drawer with the clinical precision of a surgeon. He brought out a small box and set it on the desk between us like a loaded weapon. He flipped the lid open with two fingers.
The diamond caught the light—clean, bright, and utterly impossible. It wasn't a gift; it was a pair of handcuffs.
“You wanted to prove you don’t need me to fix your life,”my father said, leaning forward into the spotlight.“Consider this your first lesson in real responsibility.”
He slid the box across the desk, the velvet base dragging with a sound that felt like static across my skin. It stopped inches from my hand.
“Congratulations,”he’d said darkly, triumph flashing behind his gaze.
“Dominic.” Marco’s voice sharpens on the line, dragging me back to the present. “Did you hear me?”
I stare at the pool, my eyes burning. “Yeah,” I lie. “Send it.”
I end the call, but I don’t put the phone away. My thumb presses against the glass until it hurts. The house keeps pulsing, a heartbeat that isn't mine.
A bottle is pressed into my hand.
I don't look up immediately. I just stare at the condensation slicking my palm, my mind thousands of miles away, wondering what Carter is doing at this exact second. Is she still helping the team, helping unload everything with an efficient frown? Has she called it a night and is she sleeping? I shouldn't care. I certainly can’t afford to care—not now that she knows the truth about the ticking clock of my life, and definitely not with the weight of what Sienna is carrying.
The thought of the baby—mybaby—is a lead weight in my gut. A child, conceived in a moment of recklessness I can't even fully recall, now acting as the final nail in the coffin proving my father right.
“You look like you could use a drink,” a voice purrs, cutting through the fog.
I finally look up. She’s a masterpiece of effort—hair done in that careless way that takes hours, a swimsuit that is a suggestion of an invitation. She smiles like she’s doing me a favor, her knee slotting between mine as she tests the space. Her hand settles on my shoulder, light and predatory.
“We should make the night worth it,” she murmurs, leaning closer until the scent of her expensive, cloying perfume fills my lungs. “Why waste it? You already have the chaos.”
I imagine the way Carter’s blonde hair feels between my fingers. I'm so far gone into the memory of her—the sharp, clean scent of her skin, the way she looks at me like I'm a human instead of a brand—that I barely notice when the girl moves.
Sometime while I was lost in the wreckage of my own head, she’s climbed on top of me. She straddles my lap, her weightsettling on the lounge chair, her mouth beginning to brush against the side of my neck.
I’m numb. I’m so gutted by the reveal in the study that I just let it happen, my head falling back against the cushion.
“You came back for me,” I mumble, the words thick and half-broken, barely escaping my throat.
I’m not talking to the person whose weight is settling on my lap. I’m talking to the absence of the woman who should be here—the only person who actually knows how to find me in the dark.
I’ve spent too much time wasted, burying myself under layers of pride and technicalities. I’ve been sitting here waiting for someone to prove I’m worth returning to, even though I’m the one who pushed everyone away at the first miscalculation. I’m the one who told her to run, and now that she finally has, I’m realizing I never actually wanted to be left behind. I wanted her to be the one thing people couldn't take, the one thing that didn't have a price tag, but I was too busy protecting myself to realize I was actually just losing her.
The girl takes it as encouragement. She moans, a soft, triumphant sound, thinking she’s finally cracked the ice. She presses her lips harder against my skin, her hands sliding into my hair, and for a split second, the weight of another body almost tricks me.
