I swipe at my face, angry at myself for believing in something soft. For thinking that Matteo kissing me goodbye on staircases and rescuing my cats might actually mean he wants me tostay.
I finish packing with numb efficiency and carry the last box to the door. My chest feels hollow, like something essential has been removed without anesthesia.
Before I leave, I step outside.
The garden is quiet, washed in late-afternoon light. The roses sway gently, unbothered by human drama, still blooming, still beautiful. I walk toward them like I’m saying goodbye to something alive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure who it’s for.
Then pain explodes at the back of my head.
There’s no warning. No time to react. Just a sharp, blinding impact that steals my breath and sends the world tilting violently sideways.
The roses blur.
The sky fractures into light and shadow.
And then everything goes dark.
18
MATTEO
Ishouldn’t have said it like that.
The thought needles at me as I move through the house, refusing to be buried under routine or authority or the familiar comfort of control.Wait outside.It’d sounded cold and final. Like she was a problem to be managed instead of a person I cared about.
I tell myself it was necessary. That I was protecting my father. Protecting her. Protecting the fragile balance that keeps everything from collapsing.
It rings hollow.
I see her face again in my mind — the way she nodded, the way she didn’t argue, the way she gathered her cats like she was used to leaving places quietly. Like being sent away was something she already knew how to do.
That’s when the truth lands, heavy and undeniable.
I don’t want to lose her.
Not like this. Not because I was too much of a coward to be honest.
Moreno’s voice echoes in my head, calm and infuriatingly right.There can’t be love without honesty.I’ve built my life oncontrol and secrets, on knowing everything before anyone else does. Letting someone see the fault lines feels reckless.
But if I get the chance—if I can fix what I broke—I won’t hide anymore.
She’ll know about my father. About Marco. About what I am and why. She’ll see the parts of me I keep locked away, even if it costs me everything.
I turn toward the stairs, already rehearsing the words I’ll say to her.
But then I feel it in the air.
Something is wrong.
The house has a way of holding sound, of carrying movement, and right now it feels hollow. Too quiet. Like a held breath that’s gone on too long.
“Rose?”
No answer.
I check the rooms she’s been using first, irritation sharpening when I find boxes half-packed, clothes folded with too much care. She could have left them behind, I suppose.
