Over the Edge

Dante

"I'm gonna head somewhere," Isabella said to Evangeline, trying to sound casual, but I heard the tension riding beneath her words like a scream behind glass.

Evangeline didn't miss a beat. "Go grab that dick, girl!" she grinned, clearly high on the drama.

"Yeah… go, girl…" I muttered, drenched in sarcasm.

She had no idea what she was cheering for. No damn clue.

If Isabella goes near Fernando tonight—if she so much as kisses him—I swear to every corrupt piece of this earth, I will fk her over his f*ing corpse.

And if she doesn't?

I'll still fuck her over his corpse.

Either way, that prick is dying tonight.

"Fuck you, Dante," Isabella snapped, storming toward the elevator, hips moving with that furious kind of confidence that made my blood boil and my ck hard in the same breath.

She was fire. And I wanted to burn.

"Hey, pretty boy," Evangeline purred, stepping in front of me like a cat in heat, yanking my tie with fingers that were way too familiar. "Got a spare for me tonight?"

I stared at her.

It was that exact moment I realized something strange. She didn't know.

She didn't know what I was doing to her cousin.

If she did, she wouldn't be flirting. She'd be throwing drinks in my face, or threatening to cut my throat like she does with Lorenzo.

But she didn't.

She had no fucking clue.

And that told me exactly how secret I'd been. How quiet I'd kept our filthy little war. Our sick little ritual of hate and heat.

Because if Evangeline—the nosiest, loudest mouth in the damn building—didn't know, then nobody did.

I gave her a cold look, sharp and disgusted. "Not tonight," I said.

Then I moved. Fast.

Away from her. Away from that neon dance floor. Away from the velvet shadows swallowing up the stage.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Normally I'd pin a girl like her to the wall and make her moan until her voice cracked. I'd rip that dress, bend her over the balcony, make her cry out my name into the night. And not think twice.

But I couldn't even look at her without comparing everything to Isabella.

It's like my dick refused anyone else.

Ever since I first saw her, all those years ago, that name's been ringing in my head like a fire alarm. Isabella. Isabella. Isabella.

Her voice. Her mouth. Her moans.

Her hands gripping my hair while I—

I shut my eyes.

Fuck.

I was obsessed. But it wasn't just sex. Not anymore. It was… her. It was every word, every breath, every stare she refused to give me. She was stuck in my throat, like a pill I couldn't swallow or spit out.

And now?

Now she was walking into Fernando's arms.

That skinny little snake.

He didn't know her.

He didn't deserve her.

He couldn't make her come just by whispering in her ear like I could.

Isabella

Eighth floor. Room 43.

I could barely breathe.

I smoothed my dress, touched up my lip gloss in the elevator's reflection, and tucked away the slight tremble in my hands. Tonight was it. I was finally seeing my man—my secret, my obsession, my Fernando.

He hated surprises, but tonight I didn't care. I was high off the way Evangeline had cheered me on, drunk on the idea of his mouth, his fingers, the way he used to whisper my name like it was a sin.

I wanted him.

I wanted all of him.

So I didn't knock.

I didn't pause.

I opened the door like I belonged there, smiling like a girl in love.

And then—

My heart stopped.

The world tilted. Everything shattered.

"FUCK! Fernando?" I screamed.

There he was.

There. He. Was.

His pants were bunched around his ankles. His head whipped up from the pillows like he'd seen a ghost. And on top of him—a girl. A Black girl, about my age, maybe younger. Completely naked, except for the wild mess of curls bouncing around her head. She was riding him, facing him, head tilted back like she was in a porn scene.

She gasped and scrambled off, clutching a sheet to her chest.

I blinked once. Twice.

I couldn't even cry. I couldn't move.

Then we both said it, in the same breath:

"Who the fuck is she?"

Fernando shot up. "Isabella—Isabella, I can explain—"

"No wonder you said I should never visit unannounced," I hissed.

Tears burned hot, stinging my eyes like acid. "Fuck you. I wish you were dead."

I didn't wait for his excuses. I didn't want to hear one more lie roll off his pretty mouth. My body moved before my brain did—out the room, down the hall, the door slamming behind me like thunder.

I was shaking.

I was bleeding from the inside.

And I hated myself more than I hated him.

I slammed the elevator button with the palm of my hand, not caring where it took me. Any floor. Any room. Just away.

The doors opened. I stepped inside, blinded by tears.

The floor number was a blur. I didn't know where I was going. My heart was lodged in my throat, and it felt like I was drowning in a pool of fire.

The elevator stopped.

I stepped out and found an empty hallway. Quiet. Dark. A strange calm sat on the floor like fog.

The first door I touched creaked open. Unlocked.

I walked in like I was floating.

It wasn't even a room—it was a suite, maybe Dante's or someone else's, but none of it mattered.

I saw the balcony. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Just like home.

When I was younger, I'd sneak out to my parents' balcony whenever I felt like the world was too heavy. Sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd just sit, hugging my knees, looking up at the stars and asking them why.

Tonight, the sky was full of them. Glittering like nothing had gone wrong.

I stepped out into the warm wind, chest rising and falling too fast. The pain sat in my lungs like smoke.

I grabbed the railing, grounding myself.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Confident.

Dante

I had just come from the shower.

I needed to clear my fucking mind. The plan had been simple: Isabella walks in on Fernando cheating, her heart breaks into a thousand pieces, and I swoop in later — calm, shirt on, maybe flowers in hand — to be the man who catches her.

To make her see I wasn't just the monster in the room, but the man who stayed when everyone else left.

Now, I was only in pants and shoes, halfway into putting on a shirt when I heard it — a sound I hadn't expected.

Sobbing.

What the hell?

No one was supposed to be here. Especially not on my balcony.

I let the shirt fall from my hands and stepped closer, silent. The balcony door was slightly ajar, and the cold air rushed in as I moved toward it. My body froze when I saw her.

Isabella.

Leaning against the railing, her back to me, arms tight around herself like the world had just caved in. Her head was down, and the sound of her muffled crying was like a punch straight to the chest.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

She wasn't supposed to be here — not in my suite, not on my balcony. The plan was for her to go home. Cry herself to sleep. Let her tears soak into a pillow that wasn't mine.

But now she was here.

And I didn't know what the hell to do.

Should I take her inside? Say something comforting? Pretend to care just enough to twist the knife deeper?

Or should I fuck her now — right when she's broken, vulnerable, weak?

God, I didn't even know anymore.

What the fuck was happening to me?

This wasn't about kindness. It never was. This was about control. Winning. Making her hate turn into something else — something I could use. And yet, standing here… frozen with my shirt forgotten and her tears punching holes in my chest…

I didn't know if I was going to play the part of the savior or the villain.

Maybe both.

Maybe that's what she needed.

Maybe that's what I needed.