“Thank you,” I murmur, though it comes out smaller than I intend.
Rosa nods once. “Someone will come fetch you when breakfast is served. Until then, take it easy. You’ve had a long night.”
When she leaves, the room feels even quieter than before. I stare at the clothes for a long time before reaching for the pills. The orange juice is cold and tart as I use it to wash down the medication.
Lorenzo Conti thinks of everything, apparently. What I’ll wear, what I’ll take, and when I’ll eat. And somehow, that’s the part that scares me the most because I’ve never had someone who cared.
Back in the bathroom, I finish wrapping my arm, the bandage sitting neater this time. It still aches, but the clean white gauze feels like progress. I grab a washcloth and run it under warm water, using it to wipe away the hospital smell clinging to my skin. It’s not the same as a real shower, but it’s enough to make me feel a little more human. There’s a brush in one of the drawers and I use it to run through my hair. Carefully, I lift my injured arm and manage to put my hair in a messy bun. Messy because it’s the best I can do, but it looks cute, so I don’t fret too much over it.
After changing into the clothes Rosa brought, I almost don’t recognize myself. The ivory sweater is soft and warm against my skin and hangs long enough to cover my butt, and the black leggings hug my hips in a way that feels too intentional. I don’t know whether Mr. Conti chose them himself or simplytold someone to “make her comfortable.” Either way, it feels deliberate. And my flats look cute with the outfit, so that’s a win, too.
I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. The penthouse is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the city through the glass walls below. It’s still cloudy out and snowing. The place smells faintly of coffee and something expensive I can’t name.
Sienna said her room was a few doors down. Maybe she’s awake. Because there are some things I want to talk to her about now that I’ve had time to rest.
I start down the hall passing door after door that all look the same. Then I hear a faint rustle, maybe the sound of fabric and movement. I glance toward an open door at the far end of the corridor.
Mr. Conti’s room.
I should turn around. I know I should. But something about that sound pulls me closer before I can stop myself.
The door is open just enough for me to see him.
He’s standing near the window, bare from the waist up as he pulls on a crisp white dress shirt. Morning light spills through the glass, catching on the lines of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his tattooed back. Shadows and gold highlight every ridge, every sharp contour. He moves with an easy, unhurried grace—someone utterly accustomed to being in control of every situation, even the simple act of dressing.
I freeze. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink.
Because, holy hell, he’s beautiful. Not handsome. Not attractive. Beautiful in a way that feels private, almost forbidden, like I’m witnessing something I was never meant to see. Like this version of him—unguarded, unstudied—belongs to no one.
The soft rustle of fabric fills the silence as he slides the shirt over his arms, leaving it unbuttoned while he reaches for a tie draped over the chair. The muscles along his abdomen shift withthe movement, the ink on his skin catching the light in quiet flashes.
Then as if pulled by an invisible thread he turns and our eyes meet.
A beat of stillness follows, so complete it feels like the air forgets how to move. His expression doesn’t shift, but I see it. The flicker. The moment his gaze sharpens just a fraction—enough to tell me he knows exactly what I saw. Exactly what I was thinking. Exactly how still I went watching him.
And from the way his breath subtly catches I think he felt it too.
“Good morning,” he says finally, voice low, smooth, and far too calm.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
“I was just looking,” I manage, my voice barely steady. “For Sienna!”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he nods. “She’s downstairs.”
I should leave. Ineedto leave. But I can’t seem to move until he turns back toward the mirror, sliding his cufflinks into place like the encounter never happened.
Only then do I manage to step back into the hallway, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my wound.
By the time I make it downstairs, my heartbeat still hasn’t decided to calm down. I tell myself it’s because of the stairs, or the pain in my arm, or the lack of sleep… but I know better.
It’s because of him.
The scent of coffee and something buttery drifts from the kitchen. Sienna’s already at the table, barefoot, hair in a messy braid, scrolling through her phone.
She grins when she spots me. “Morning! There’s coffee, pastries, fruit—whatever you want. Rosa went overboard.”
“Smells amazing,” I manage, sliding into the seat opposite her.
