Anger churned beneath the surface of his features—a storm building behind those dark eyes.
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Then—crash.
His fist slammed into the glass sliding door.
Shards exploded across the floor like scattered diamonds, catching the dim light as they fell.
"My voice recorder. Where is it."
He closed the distance between us, his voice strained and unraveling at the edges. The words came out rough, broken—nothing like the smooth commands of a man born to lead.
Blood dripped from his right hand, one drop at a time, spattering against the marble like a metronome counting down to something terrible.
I had never seen him this unhinged. This human.
I summoned every ounce of courage left in my battered body and shoved him away.
Dragging my injured leg behind me, I tried to escape through the front door. Tried to flee this mausoleum of a marriage, this beautiful prison I had decorated with my own hands.
That's when it happened.
"I'm Nico Volpe. I'm eighteen years old. I want to confess my feelings to Massima."
The voice burst into the silence like a gunshot.
Young. Earnest. Full of hope.