He wasn’t sure what infuriated him more: the agonizingly slow shuffle of your feet as you approached the door, his fist still aching from pounding against it, or the way you looked up at him with that innocent, bewildered expression when you finally opened it. But any semblance of restraint shattered when his gaze fell to the cane gripped in your hand. Matteo’s lip curled in disgust, not at you, but at the reality of it all. Without a word, he pushed past you roughly, the impact nearly throwing you off balance. And then he was back, grabbing your arm with a bruising grip, yanking you forward despite your startled cry.

“Do you have any idea—any idea—what you’ve done?” His voice trembled with unbridled fury as he dragged you into the open space of your living room, shoving you forward. His hands clamped down on your shoulders, fingers digging in with the intensity of his rage, his breath coming out in uneven spurts. “You—Damn you!” he snarled, leaning in closer, his eyes wild. “My entire career is based on pity because of you!”

The words were harsh, biting, but they carried a weight of anguish he could no longer contain. He needed someone to blame, and you—crippled, defenseless, staring up at him with wide eyes—were the only one he could lash out at. He knew it wasn’t fair. Injuries were part of the dance, a risk they both accepted. But you were supposed to be his equal, his rival, the one he’d trained against, bled against, triumphed over. And now—now—that victory, the one that was supposed to define his career, his life, had been rendered meaningless. How could you, you, his equal, be brought low by something so simple? How could you ruin everything?

“Drop it!” he barked suddenly, eyes flicking down to the cane with a hatred so visceral it was almost tangible. “Drop the damn thing.” When you hesitated, he tightened his hold, shaking you slightly as if to snap you out of your stunned state. “We’re dancing,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “We’re going to do this right, and I’m going to win the right way!”