I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching until my eyes sting and my throat burns. When it’s over, I sit on the cool tile, breathing hard.
It could be stress. It could be the knowledge of what he did with my pills. It could be anything, really. But there’s another possibility. One I haven’t allowed myself to really think about.
Am I pregnant?
The thought hits me like ice water. Sharp and real, too possible to ignore. I stand slowly, gripping the counter as I meet my reflection in the mirror. My skin is pale. My eyes are swollen.But there’s something else. An uncertainty blooming like a bruise. God knows we’ve had more than enough sex to make it possible. And without protection. Because he made sure of that.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
Does Lorenzo have a test somewhere? A doctor on standby? Something hidden in his bathroom? Surely a man so hellbent on getting me pregnant would have something on hand to check when the time came.
I change quickly, my hands shaking the whole time, and step into the hallway. Every step toward his room feels like walking through water.
When I open his door, the world tilts.
Francesca is standing near the closet.
Unpacking.
Her.
Clothes.
She turns at the sound, her expression brightening automatically then faltering when she realizes it’s just me. Her hands drift to her stomach, small but unmistakable gesture, and I see the gentle curve pushing beneath her expensive dress. She shields it with her palm like she’s protecting it fromme.
The air leaves my lungs.
“What are you doing in here?” she asks sharply.
My mind blanks. Panic claws up my spine.
“I… I needed a band-aid,” I manage, voice thin and humiliating. “I thought Mr. Conti might have some.”
Her lips press into a cold, polite line. The kind of smile women like her weaponize.
“Ask Rosa. And please refrain from barging into my bedroom like that.”
My bedroom.The words hit harder than a slap. Because she’s right. This room is hers. The closet is hers. The space, the bed, the life—hers. And I’m just the mistake he couldn’t let go of. Inod quickly, backing out before she can see the way my chest is caving in.
But the universe has a sick sense of humor, because as I hurry back down the hall I run straight into Cesaro. He’s heading toward Lorenzo’s bedroom carrying a few boxes. Francesca’s boxes.
My voice comes out thin and cracked. “Does… does Lorenzo know Francesca is moving in?”
Cesaro stops. His face gives away nothing—not surprise, not concern, not even sympathy. Just the cool, unreadable mask of a man who knows far too much.
“I believe Mr. Conti is going to speak to you when he returns,” he says carefully.
Mr. Conti.
Something inside me breaks. A quiet, hollow snap.
“No,” I whisper. “No. This is just like New Year’s Eve all over again.”
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t reassure me. He just stands there holding those freaking boxes like this is how things were always supposed to end.
“And when will he return?” I ask, even though I’m terrified of the answer.
“His plane lands at six,” he says.
