The Rejected Principessa Returns novel Chapter 20

Chapter 11

I spent several years studying abroad, living a life of deliberate normalcy and quiet comfort-a world away from the violence and intrigue of my past. The memories of Lewis, Victoria, and the entire Corleone mess had faded into the distant, inconsequential background of my life.

It was by a twist of cruel, ironic fate that our paths crossed again.

A friend, unaware of my history, had dragged me to an exclusive, notoriously decadent club for a night out. I was sipping an overpriced cocktail, laughing at some trivial joke, when my gaze drifted idly towards the central stage.

And there he was.

Lewis.

He was on stage, under the garish lights, performing a clumsy, degrading pole dance for a jeering, moneyed crowd. For a disorienting second, I truly believed my mind was playing tricks. But no. It was him. The once-feared Don Corleone, reduced to a paid spectacle.

Since he was, technically, an old acquaintance, I found my eyes drawn to his pathetic performance as I slowly finished my drink.

I watched young, bored heiresses laugh and tuck folded bills into the waistband of his cheap, sequined shorts. I saw him grovel, that once-proud smile now a desperate, servile grimace as he begged for tips,

downing shots they bought for him as a cruel dare.

I couldn’t help but release a slow, weary sigh. My God, I thought, what a colossal fool I had been to ever see a

king in this broken jester.

After settling the bill, my friend and I made our way towards the exit. At the club’s entrance, under the neon

lights, Lewis was still hustling, his voice hoarse as he called out to potential patrons filing in. Suddenly, a

man in a sharp suit, clearly displeased, splashed the entire contents of his glass directly into Lewis’s face.

He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and he began mumbling a stream of apologies in a tiny,

broken voice-every last shred of pride and defiance utterly extinguished, leaving only total, desperate

subservience.

When he finally lifted his head, shaking the liquor from his eyes, his gaze accidentally met mine across the

crowded entrance.

“Emily…” he breathed out, my name a ghost on his lips.

Chapter 11

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I offered him a faint, impersonal smile, the kind you’d give a stray animal. I reached into my purse, pulled out a few high-denomination bills, and stepped forward to tuck them into the same waistband the heiresses had

used.

His entire body went rigid, the humiliation hitting him with a physical force far greater than the thrown drink.

I didn’t wait for a reaction. I had already turned and stepped into the back of my waiting luxury sedan.

Through the tinted, bulletproof window, I watched his reflection in the side mirror. He remained frozen on the sidewalk, a statue of shame, the money stark against the cheap fabric.

I had no idea what was going through his mind in that moment-what regrets, what bitterness, what pathetic

hopes lay behind those dull, lifeless eyes.

But in the end, it was of no consequence.

Regret is the most useless of currencies. No matter how deeply you feel it, it cannot buy back a single second of the past, nor change a single thing you have become.

Chapter 11

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