The tension breaks for a second. I smile, barely, and both of them notice.
Alessia leans in. “There she is.”
“There who is?”
“The version of you who still exists. Don’t lose her, okay?”
“I won’t,” I say, though it feels like a promise I don’t know how to keep.
We pay the bill, tip generously, and step out into the early afternoon. The sky’s overcast, but warm. People rush by with shopping bags and laughter that feels foreign. Valentina’s phone buzzes; she answers it with the ease of someone who’s used to being in control. Alessia scrolls through hers, probably texting Romiro some variation ofyour brother’s an idiot.
We walk in silence for a block before Valentina ends the call.
“That was Eli,” she says. “He wanted to make sure you’re still planning to come by for dinner tonight.”
“Of course,” I say. “He’ll worry otherwise.”
“You don’t owe him appearances,” Alessia mutters.
“He’s still my brother,” I say simply. “And for better or worse, he’s trying.”
They exchange another look, the kind that saysshe doesn’t see it yet.
And maybe I don’t want to.
The car pulls up to the curb. Valentina slides into the front seat beside the driver. Alessia and I take the back. The ride’s quiet, just the hum of traffic and the faint buzz of a radio station trying to find a signal.
Alessia glances at me once, twice, before finally saying, “If you ever decide you don’t want this?—”
“I don’t have a choice,” I interrupt.
She turns fully toward me. “You always have a choice. It just might not be the kind that feels safe.”
Valentina looks at us through the mirror. “Alessia.”
“I’m just saying,” she mutters.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. By the time we pull up to the penthouse, my head’s pounding. I thank them both and head straight for my room. Duchess is waiting on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily as if she’s been judging me for hours.
I close the door, lean against it, and exhale. The reflection in the window catches me off guard: white blouse, pressed slacks, hair perfectly in place. Every piece of me is arranged, contained, appropriate. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe it.
I cross to the dresser and pick up one of the invitation samples lying there. The gold script glints in the light.
Mara Folonari & Orlo Chernov.
It looks foreign. Like I’m reading someone else’s fate. I set it back down and press my fingers to my temples. The faintest ache blooms behind my eyes—the kind that isn’t quite pain, but close enough.
In the distance, thunder rolls—soft, almost hesitant. For a second, I forget where I am. The sound drags me back to the Castello, to rain on glass and the smell of smoke and the echo of his voice in the dark.
Then I blink and it’s gone.
Three weeks. That’s all I have left.
I reach for Duchess, pulling her into my lap. She purrs, unconcerned. The world could fall apart, and she’d still demand attention.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, burying my face in her fur. “I’m fine.”
She stretches, unimpressed.
