"What do you mean by that?" Cara asked through clenched teeth as she grabbed my arm. Her grip was harder than it should have been. Her nails bit through the sleeve of my coat.
"It means I don't want him anymore," I replied, pulling my arm free. "If you want him, he's all yours."
For a moment, something shifted behind her eyes. Not relief. Not triumph. Something closer to fear. Because a woman who walks away from a Moretti voluntarily is either bluffing or dangerous, and Cara couldn't tell which one I was.
Her eyes narrowed, and she threw my arm aside angrily. "What game are you playing now? Don't think I'm buying this for a second!"
The force of her shove sent me stumbling backward, and I fell to the floor.
The impact jarred through my spine, my hip, my belly. And then, at that moment, it felt like a knife had ripped through my belly. Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration. A blade of pain so specific and so total that the world went white at the edges. Pain shot through me, and I felt my body convulsed.