Page 77 of Virtuous Lies

When I spin on my heel, the insult I had balancing on my tongue drops away, the sheer amount of blood decorating his clothes enough to erase my envy and replace it with panic. “You’re bleeding.”

He looks down at his white dress shirt, now stained with blotches and splatters of red.

He breathes heavily through his nostrils. “Not my blood.”

I grimace.

“What are you doing here, Bianca?”

I fall back a step in shock. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Gabriella,” he starts.

“Don’t you speak to her before me.” I step into his line of sight. “You’ve lied. You’ve cheated.” I throw a hand back toward the beauty behind me. “You’ve disrespected me enough.”

His eyes cut to me. “I will not be spoken to with such blatant disrespect. You are laughably misaligned in your accusations. Go upstairs and wait for me.”

“No.”

He arches an eyebrow. “No?”

“That’s what I said.No.”

He growls in his throat, cursing under his breath. “Gabriella, I will deal with you later.”

Grabbing at my hand, I pull it back, but his grip is too strong.

“Let me go,” I grit. “You’re covered in blood.”

He drags me from the sub-penthouse and into the elevator with long strides.

“Let me go, you fucking asshole.”

Confident I’m contained in the metal box, he lets go of my hand, his bloodstained hand cupping his jaw roughly.

“Icannotbelieve you.” Pushing my back against the wall, I keep as much distance as possible, staring at my husband's reflection in disgust. “You repulse me.”

A snort of laughter sounds from his nose. “I could have you naked and begging me in mere fucking seconds, wife. Don’t embarrass yourself with empty statements.”

I scowl.

The elevator doors open, and for the first time in our few months of marriage, Vincent doesn’t hold the elevator door to let me exit in front of him. He storms into our apartment.

I glance at the elevator buttons.

“Think about running, and I will wreak havoc on this fucking city looking for you. I will find you, Bianca. There is nowhere in this world you can hide from me.”

Knowing he’s right, I step into the apartment.

“She can be smart,” he quips.

I throw my clutch at his head. It misses the mark, flying past his shoulder and onto the floor, mere steps in front of him.

Looking over his shoulder, fury sparks in his eyes.

I expect him to threaten me. I expect him to yell.

He doesn’t do either. He simply turns back toward the stairs and makes his way to our bedroom.