Chapter 8 Recognition and Rage

The marble-floored lobby of the seaside resort glittered under soft golden lighting. The concierge behind the desk smiled professionally, tapping her manicured nails against the keyboard.

Isabel stood frozen beside her luggage, the air thick around her as Alessandro stepped up beside her-his jaw rigid, his silence louder than any outburst.

They hadn't spoken since he'd walked into the suite hours ago and realization dulled on them, he called her a lying bitch..

Now, they stood together again, a little too close, in front of a woman who had just dropped a bomb on both their heads.

"I'm terribly sorry," the concierge chirped, oblivious to the storm brewing. "It looks like there was a booking conflict. Mr. De'Luca had a suite reserved under the family name, but Ms. Rossi-the concierge that day mixed it up. I believe she filled a shared accommodation for 'the kids.'" She smiled brightly, as if she'd done them both a favor. "I assume that's the two of you."

Isabel opened her mouth. Then closed it.

Alessandro spoke first. "There must be a mistake, do I look like a kid to you?" He barked.

"I double-checked," the woman said with a polite tilt of her head. "Everything's full. There's a wedding party and a conference group this weekend. All suites and private rooms are taken."

"I'll pay for another room," he snapped, voice low and dangerous.

The woman's smile faltered. "I understand, sir. But there's nothing available. Not even in the standard wings."

Alessandro's hands flexed at his sides. Isabel could almost hear the sharp grind of his teeth.

"You have one suite between the two of us?" he asked flatly.

"Yes," the woman replied. "And it's one of our most luxurious. Ocean view. Double en-suite. Very spacious. I'll have your bags sent up right away."

Without another word, Alessandro turned on his heel and walked toward the elevator. Isabel stood there for another breathless second, heat prickling at the back of her neck, then followed.

The ride up was painfully silent.

She could hear the faint tick of the elevator as it rose, the only sound between them.

When they reached the suite, Alessandro took the keycard from the bellhop before Isabel could speak. The man showed them in, left a short welcome, and disappeared with the soft click of the door.

Then they were alone.

The room was beautiful-two massive beds separated by a half wall, tall windows facing the open sea, an oversized bathroom with a glass door on one end, and sleek modern décor throughout. It screamed opulence.

It also screamed this shouldn't be happening.

Isabel rolled her suitcase into the farthest corner of the room and parked it with more force than necessary. She kept her eyes on the floor, unsure if she'd explode or dissolve if she looked at him.

"How long are we supposed to stay in here together?" she muttered.

Alessandro's voice was like ice. "The fuck I know."

She laughed bitterly, no humor in it. "Perfect."

He paced to the window, dragging a hand through his hair. The collar of his shirt was slightly open, revealing a sliver of skin she had kissed last night. It made her stomach twist.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath. "A booking error. They really expect me to-"

"To what?" she cut in. "Sleep in the same room with your stripper one-night stand who turned out to be your stepsister?"

He turned sharply. His glare could've cracked glass. "Don't say it like that."

"Why not?" she snapped. "It's the truth, isn't it? Last night you were calling me beautiful and whispering that I made you feel free. Now you can barely look at me."

He said nothing, but the line of his jaw tightened.

She pressed her hands against her temples, pacing now. "I shouldn't have come here. This whole trip was a mistake."

"You didn't know I'd be here," he said quietly. "Right?"

She stopped, turned. "No. I didn't."

"Then why did you agree to come?"

"My father begged me to," she said. "Or rather, Vivian did. Apparently, family bonding is her new obsession."

"You sure it wasn't just a convenient way to make sure you ran into me again?" he asked darkly.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

He stalked toward her, eyes blazing now. "You were at that club under a fake name. You left out a lot. You danced like you'd done it before. And somehow, within twenty-four hours, you just happen to show up at the exact same resort I booked? As my stepsister?"

"You think I planned this?" she asked, voice rising.

"I don't know what to think," he said. "I don't know who you are anymore."

She flinched at that. Not the words-but how low and raw they came out.

"Well," she whispered, voice trembling. "Now you know. I'm just the girl my father's new wife dragged out here to play nice. I didn't come here to ruin your vacation, or seduce you. I just... I didn't expect you."

She turned away before he could see the heat in her eyes. Or the humiliation.

The air was too still. The silence too thick. She had to get out of this room before she broke into a thousand pieces.

"Bathroom's mine first," she said flatly, grabbing her toiletry bag.

He didn't stop her.

She slammed the bathroom door behind her and braced her hands on the sink, breathing hard.

What the hell just happened?

How could it all twist so fast? A night that had felt almost magical-tainted in the daylight.

She stared at her reflection. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes red-rimmed with emotion. Her fingers gripped the edge of the marble counter.

Then-just as the quiet started to settle-

A knock. One sharp, deliberate knock on the door.

A pause.

Then his voice, low and controlled, but weighted with something else beneath it:

"We need to talk."