But I knew better. Like I told her—we are inevitable.
I open the door, and the breath stutters in my chest.
She’s pale.
A drained,fragile kind of pale, the kind that makes a man want to tear the world apart just to find who or what caused it. The smile she offers me is thin and forced, and it does nothing to hide the exhaustion carved into her features.
And all I can think about is how the last time she stood in this penthouse, I had her trembling beneath my mouth, her taste onmy tongue, her body opening for me like she’d been waiting her whole life.
“Bella,” I say softly. I want to reach for her. I want to touch her. I don’t.
“Hey.” Her voice is a whisper, small and wrong on her tongue.
I step aside so she can enter. The scent of lavender trails in behind her, settling low in my lungs. I try not to inhale it. I fail.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, leading her to the kitchen because I need something to do with my hands. “You look like you could use something strong.” I pull out a bottle of wine, already reaching for a glass.
The moment I turn around, she goes rigid.
“No—that’s okay.” Her voice fractures around the words. “I’d rather just… get down to it. Please. And, what is that smell?”
Her eyes sweep the kitchen until they land on the cheese board my housekeeper left earlier.
“It’s cheese,” I say slowly. “Do you want?—”
I don’t finish.
Her entire face contorts.She drops her bag onto the counter and clamps a hand over her mouth, swallowing hard like she’s fighting her own body.
“Beatrice?” I take a step forward. Her eyes are wide, panicked.
“Bathroom—please,” she manages through her hand. “Hurry.”
“Second door on the left.”
She doesn’t wait for me to finish. She sprints down the hall, disappearing behind the bathroom door.
For a moment, I’m frozen in place. The instinct to follow her nearly overrides every rational thought, every boundary she’s tried to keep between us. But I force myself to stay where I am.
She needs a moment. And if I barge in now, the fragile thread holding her together might snap.
Still, my worry spikes so hard it borders on rage. Whatever is happening to her, whatever has drained the light from her skin, whatever has brought her to my door looking like a ghost of herself… I have a sickening feeling I already know who is responsible.
I sit on one of the high kitchen stools, jaw tight, mind already spinning through every possible way I could break Giacomo for whatever he has done to her to make her come here white-faced and trembling. I’ve never seen her like this—frightened, off-balance, stripped of her usual quiet strength—and the fact that she wants to run now, after everything, tells me whatever happened wasn’t small. It was catastrophic.
And after the way she bolted from me yesterday, even after that raw, primal moment between us, I know she wouldn’t have come to me so soon unless she was desperate. Unless she had nowhere else to go.
I look to my left and notice a few of her things have spilled from her bag, scattered over the countertop. I lean forward to gather them, but my hand stops mid-reach when I see a slip of paper half-hidden under the leather strap.
Something about the shape makes my heartbeat stutter.
I pull it free.
I unfold it.
The world drops into silence.
It’s an ultrasound.
