The words are wrapped in a faint smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s teasing or testing me. Maybe both.
“It’s just weird,” I say finally. “I shouldn’t be in here.”
“And why is that,cara?”
The word hits me like a spark.Cara.Sweetheart. He’s never called me that before. It used to beMiss MillerorElizabeth,always formal, distant. But this feels different. It’s too personal which makes it dangerous.
I glance away, my throat tight.
“I’m tired,” I say, grasping for escape. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
He lets the moment stretch, studying me long enough that I can feel the weight of his gaze. Then, finally, he nods. “Rest.”
He pats my leg once, almost tender, then stands and leaves the room.
The door closes softly behind him, and silence folds around me again.
I stare at the ceiling, at the soft flicker of light spilling through the curtains. My chest aches with a grief that feels too big for my body. Sienna would know what to do. She’d know how to talk to him, how to make sense of the way he looks at me.
But she’s gone.
I press a trembling hand over my heart, where the ache never seems to fade.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper to the empty room.
No one answers, but I swear I can still hear her laughter echoing faintly in my head. Bright and fearless, the way she always was.
And it makes the silence feel even heavier.
13
Birdie
An entire week goes by where Lorenzo keeps me in his room.
At first, it feels like protection. Then it starts to feel like a gilded cage.
He finally stops insisting on helping me every time I need to go to the bathroom but only because I started crying. Not yelling, not arguing. Crying. Ugly, silent tears I couldn’t stop.
Did he flinch when I shouted at him to give me space? Not even a little. But the second the tears came, something inside him cracked wide open. He’d looked lost, like my crying was the one thing he couldn’t fight his way through. After that, he backed off. Sort of.
And now I’m bored.
So freaking bored.
There’s no TV in here, which feels criminal in a penthouse this massive. I’ve already memorized every vein in the marble wall and every tiny imperfection in the ceiling. My only lifeline is my phone, which is its own kind of torture.
Because the messages don’t stop.
When are you coming home?
Are you and Sienna okay?
Birdie, we miss you. You’ve been MIA for weeks.
Every buzz sends a fresh wave of dread rolling through me.
Sara’s latest one hits hardest.
