Page 148 of Brutal Heir

And then I saw it.

On a padded velvet bench in the center of the wardrobe was an outfit laid out for me: an exquisite Italian designer dress in deep sapphire blue, its lines as sleek and unforgiving as Sebastian himself. Beside it sat a pair of heels with delicate straps meant to make a woman look graceful but powerless.

A slow, burning anger rose in my chest.

I picked up the dress, the silk smooth under my fingertips. It was flawless, expensive, and suffocating.

In a single violent motion, I yanked.

The delicate seams tore easily, splitting the fabric with a satisfying rip. I didn’t stop there, shredding the garment until it was nothing but scraps. Then I tossed the tattered remains onto the marble floor.

Sebastian’s control wouldn’t extend to the clothes on my back.

I turned to the rest of the wardrobe, determined to find something—anything—that wasn’t his.

Then, hidden at the back of the wardrobe, I found it: a pair of faded, torn jeans and a wrinkled white New York Yankees T-shirt. Sebastian must have overlooked them in his meticulous effort to transform me.

I clutched the clothes to my chest.

The jeans were snug, the tears in the fabric exposing my knees, and the T-shirt hung loose but familiar. It was a far cry from the couture that surrounded me, but it was me—real.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. My hair was still a mess and my face was pale, but my reflection stared back with quiet determination.

Let him see me like this.

Let him seethe.

I didn’t care.

* * *

The corridor outside was equally oppressive, its arched windows offering a view of the Eternal City.

The sprawling rooftops of Rome stretched out beneath the pale morning light, terracotta tiles glowing softly under the rising sun.

I had no friends here, no allies.

The quiet murmurs of the staff fell silent as I passed. They avoided my gaze, their whispers dying the moment they caught sight of me.

The dining room loomed ahead. High arched ceilings hovered above, and medieval tapestries depicting hunting scenes adorned the walls.

A long oak table stretched in front of a crackling fireplace, covered with silver trays of fresh pastries, bowls of jewel-toned fruits, and steaming espresso pots.

There were sfogliatelle, their paper-thin layers dusted with powdered sugar, and cornetti filled with glossy apricot jam. Sliced prosciutto curled around delicate figs, and glass carafes of orange juice gleamed like sunlight.

A tableau meant to trap me in his gilded cage.

And there he was.

Sebastian sat at the head of the table, devastatingly composed. His hair still damp, as though he’d just stepped out of the shower, and the open collar of his crisp white shirt revealed the strong line of his throat.

He looked utterly unaffected.

His sharp gaze cut to me, narrowing as he took in my outfit. A trace of irritation crossed his face, gone as quickly as it came.

“You’re not dressed.”

“This is what I’m wearing,” I said coldly, crossing the room to the opposite end of the table.