𝐓𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟏𝟑 | 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞

song: chris grey - prada & versace

⋆･𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚･⋆

After a long night at the club, I finally come back to the penthouse, which I am now supposed to call my home. It is well past 2 AM, and exhaustion weighs on my shoulders as I drive into the garage.

I dismount my bike and place the helmet neatly onto the seat. Suppressing a yawn, I toss my long hair out of the way and walk up to the elevator, which in my opinion, takes way too long to reach the top floor.

The metal doors open and as I step inside, I lean back against the metal wall in the suffocating box. Just when I think I can take a breather, the elevator stops one floor later and confusion takes over. This floor doesn't lead to the apartments, as they only start on the second floor, so who the hell is there in the middle of the night? My mind is about to have a fight or flight moment, but then a familiar sound of grunting catches my attention from the other side of the metal.

I stick to the wall and wait as the doors open yet again and then a shadow figure steps inside. It takes my eyes a few seconds to realize it's Dante, whom I have not seen in a week, due to him barricading himself inside of his private office.

Grunting at the sight before me, he simply turns around, his back facing me. Despite the exhaustion, anger boils beneath my skin. Lately he has been acting like a damn child, whose toy was taken away due to bad behavior, and I simply can't handle it anymore.

"Dante," I murmur, now crossing my arms as I lean further into the wall, with his backside still pointed toward me.

"Gianna," he replies, his voice low.

The door then closes, enveloping us in more silence, which I decide to break yet again.

"Been busy?" I venture as the elevator escalates further.

I watch him shrug his shoulders with his gaze fixed on the changing numbers above the door. "Work," he replies shortly.

My frustration simmers again and I call his name once more, while pushing off the cool wall. He glances over his shoulder with an expression I cannot read.

"What do you want?" His gaze lands on my moving feet as I'm now on his left side. "Is everything alright?"

I cross my arms, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. "Well, I'm glad you decided to speak to me after days," I say with sarcasm taking over my tone.

"I speak to you when it's needed," he retorts, brushing me off.

Forgetting about my exhaustion from the bartending work earlier, I now fixate him with a stern look. "We need to talk," I assert, fixing my front strands. "Like adults," I add.

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flickering with mild disinterest. "About what?"

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts before speaking. "About the engagement party," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves coursing through me. "And the way you've been avoiding me ever since."

His jaw tenses imperceptibly, but he remains outwardly composed. "There's nothing to talk about," he replies curtly, still staring ahead.

I refuse to let him dismiss the issue so easily as I am not a person who thrives in miscommunication. "That's not good enough," I say firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. "We can't just pretend like nothing happened, as if we are moody teenagers." I continue. "Although, you certainly look like one." I point to the frown on his face.

"I didn't ask for attitude." His voice is stern. As he runs a hand through his hair, I notice the way each strand falls back into place, perfectly sculpted, a testament to his meticulous grooming. His deep voice reverberates in the elevator, a stark contrast to the casual air I am trying to maintain. Observing him for a moment, I see he is still in his black dress shirt and slacks, as if he had a meeting this late, inside his own building.