Chapter 53: What do you want?
I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t matter—not when Nico had already made his stance clear without even needing to raise his voice.
So I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I didn’t even sigh.
I simply got up from the stool, abandoning my half-full glass of wine like it no longer belonged to me, and walked toward the door. The cool marble floor grounded me with every step, steadying the frustration building in my chest. When I pulled the door open, the servant was already there, standing stiffly with the clothes I had requested neatly folded over his arm.
I took them without a word, my fingers brushing against the crisp fabric, then turned on my heel and headed straight for the bathroom.
I could feel Nico’s gaze on me—heavy, unmoving, deliberate—but I ignored it.
Completely.
I stepped inside, shut the door firmly behind me, and locked it. Not out of habit, but because I didn’t trust him. Not tonight. Not when I could already sense the tension simmering between us, threatening to spill over into something reckless.
The shower was quick. I didn’t allow myself the luxury of lingering under the hot water, even though I desperately wanted to. Instead, I scrubbed, rinsed, and stepped out within minutes, wrapping myself up and dressing efficiently.
When I came back out, Nico wasn’t there.
That alone eased something tight in my chest.
But what I did find was better—the servants had wheeled in the trolley of food he had ordered. The aroma hit me instantly, rich and warm, curling into the air and wrapping around me like comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.
Without hesitation, I moved toward it.
The dishes were still steaming as I set them out on the table one after the other, arranging plates with quick, practiced movements. I didn’t wait for Nico. I had no intention of waiting for him.
I sat down and started eating.
The first spoonful of chicken soup with rice was heavenly—perfectly seasoned, hot enough to make me pause for just a second before going in for more. My shoulders relaxed slightly as I ate, the tension in my body easing with each bite.
I was on my second spoon when Nico stepped out of the shower.
I didn’t look up immediately—but I noticed.
Of course I did.
His hair was wet, strands clinging to his forehead as he dragged a towel through it lazily. Another towel was wrapped low around his waist, hanging just enough to suggest carelessness, or maybe intention.
Instead of heading to the closet like a normal person, he walked straight toward me.
Toward the small sitting area.
Toward me.
I didn’t react. I kept eating.
Another spoonful. Then another.
But I was aware—painfully aware—of everything.
The water still clinging to his skin. The way it caught the light. The slow, deliberate steps. The fact that he didn’t bother putting on clothes.
I knew exactly what he was doing.
Still, I ignored him.
Focused on my food.
Thankfully, after a moment, he did the same. He sat opposite me and began to eat, slow and composed, as if nothing at all was wrong.
It didn’t take long before I was full.
The moment I was done, I stood up and moved to the nearby shelf, grabbing sheets of paper and a pen. If there was any way to keep this meeting from dissolving into something... else, it was to stay focused. To stay busy. To force structure into the chaos that always followed him.
I cleared the plates, replacing them with the papers.
Then I sat back down in front of him.
He was still eating, but I didn’t wait.
The second he took his final spoon, I leaned forward slightly and began.
"We need to go over your plan from the very beginning," I said firmly, my tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I need to know everything you know."
My fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
"I feel like I’m being kept in the dark," I added, my gaze fixed on his face. I knew better than to let it wander—to his chest, to the tattoos spread across his skin, to anything that would distract me.
"I also think we can be more proactive in catching the culprit. We need to do more."
Bianca was making moves. I could feel it. And I hated not knowing where I stood in all of this.
Nico picked up a napkin and wiped his lips slowly, almost lazily, before folding it neatly and placing it back on the table. The calmness of the gesture irritated me more than anything else.
The towel around his waist shifted slightly as he parted his legs, exposing more of his thigh than necessary.
I noticed.
I hated that I noticed.
His tattoos stretched across his chest and torso, intricate and deliberate, and for a split second, I had to force my eyes back down to the paper in front of me.
"What did you find out from Vale?" I asked, steadying my voice as I prepared to write.
But the moment Nico spoke, something inside me dropped.
"You agreed to betray me."
I froze.
The pen slipped from my fingers and hit the table with a soft clatter as I looked up at him.
He looked calm.
Too calm.
There was a teasing glint in his eyes, but I knew better than to trust it. I could see it—the tension in his jaw, the subtle coldness creeping into his gaze.
"How did you—"
"You accepted her offer," he cut in smoothly. "Clearly, you do not hate her enough."
I paused.
Silence filled the space between us, thick and suffocating, but I didn’t look away.
"I thought of a way to play her," I said finally. "So I agreed. She asked for the financial statements. I had no intention of giving them to her."
To me, that should have been obvious.
But this was Nico.
A man who trusted actions more than words.
"You could have asked for more time," he replied, and this time there was something else in his tone—bitterness.
It caught me off guard.
My mind raced. How did he know? It had only been Bianca and me.
Had she told him?
That didn’t make sense.
Nico sat back, his hands folded loosely in his lap, his posture relaxed—but it was a lie. I knew him too well.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the folded envelope, sliding it across the table toward him.
"Look at this."
He opened it slowly, and as he went through the pictures, a sly smile spread across his face.
My stomach tightened.
"We can’t let her release those," I said, my voice firm. "Do you understand how bad that would be for us?"
He didn’t answer immediately.
He just kept looking at them, one after the other, as if studying them carefully.
"Its well taken," he said at last. "I should find and hire the photographer myself."
I stared at him.
Waiting.
Hoping that was sarcasm.
But the smile on his face said otherwise.
"We’ll release the pictures," he added.
My breath caught.
"You’re joking."
"I’ve never been more serious in my life."
Anger flared instantly.
"Giving her the financials—even fake ones—is a bad move," he continued, as if he hadn’t just suggested destroying us both. "It tells her she can blackmail you and get away with it."
He glanced down at the pictures again.
"A precedent we don’t want to set."
My hands curled into fists on my thighs.
"Releasing those pictures while you’re still legally my stepbrother?" I shot back. "Bianca swore to spread rumors that Gabriel Nevarro Castillo is your father."
I let the name hang in the air.
"You have blue eyes!" I snapped, frustration bleeding into every word. "Do you even understand the damage that would cause?"
Most people weren’t progressive. Not where we came from.
They would rather believe we were a scandalous couple than accept anything resembling familial ties twisted into something inappropriate.
"Even if you try to spin it, it won’t end the way you think," I continued.
But I was still talking when Nico stood up.
Silently.
The chair didn’t even scrape against the floor.
"This conversation is over," he said flatly.
And just like that, he turned away from me, walking toward the bed, then straight to the closet. The towel slipped from his waist and neck as he dressed without a care, as if I wasn’t even there.
For a moment, I just sat there.
Stunned.
Everything I wanted to know—still unanswered.
Everything—derailed.
By the time I processed it, he was already pulling on a pair of loose, comfortable pants, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who had just set a fire and walked away from it.
It made my chest burn.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping this time, and moved toward him.
"This conversation is just starting!" I snapped. "We agreed. How are you supposed to find my father’s killer if you keep me out of it?"
He didn’t respond.
"Releasing those pictures will ruin me," I continued, my voice rising despite my efforts. "Yes, it stops the blackmail—but my reputation? It won’t recover from that. They’ll tear me apart."
Still nothing.
"People at the auction already know I owe you enough money to practically be your slave," I added bitterly.
That got nothing more than a glance.
He sat on the bed, his expression blank, as if my words barely registered.
Then he lay back.
Pulled the covers over himself.
That was it.
Something inside me snapped.
I stormed forward and yanked the covers off him.
His hand shot out instantly, grabbing my wrist, stopping me.
"I am obligated to help you," he said coldly, his grip tightening just enough to remind me of the difference between us, "but not to carry you along every step of the way."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Like a contract being recited aloud.
Like a line being drawn.
"What the fuck do you want, Nico?" I yelled, the restraint I had been holding onto finally shattering.
Because no matter what I did—
No matter what I offered—
It was never enough.
