His Mistress indeed

Antonia woke up to the scent of him still clinging to the sheets, her body sore from the night before. Her eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she noticed was the cool emptiness beside her.

Valentino was gone.

She sat up slowly, wincing at the ache between her thighs, the soreness a reminder of how relentless he had been. How possessive. How completely he had claimed her.

Her gaze shifted to the floor, where the remnants of her dress lay in tattered shreds. A sigh slipped past her lips. He hadn’t even let her take it off properly. The man was obsessed with tearing her apart—literally and figuratively.

You’re mine, fucking mine, Angela, his voice echoed in her head.

Her skin burned at the memory, the way he had held her down, the way his lips had branded her, the way he had whispered her fake name over and over as if he were casting a spell.