I’ve been in this room too long. Sleeping in his bed, breathing his air, losing track of where I end and his rules begin. I shove the bedding back, swing my legs over the edge, and stand. My legs tremble a little, but I ignore it. I’ve been walking laps around this room for days, testing my strength, waiting for a chance to feel human again.
Now’s that chance.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, the only piece of my old life that still feels like mine, and head for the door.
The hallway stretches before me, quiet and endless. The house is too still, the kind of still that listens.
I take a breath. One step. Then another.
The air feels different out here. It’s cooler, freer, and somehow dangerous in a way that makes my pulse quicken. Somewhere deep down, I know that if Lorenzo catches me, he’ll be furious. But right now, I don’t care.
Right now, I just need to remember what freedom feels like.
Sienna’s door is open when I pass it, and I stop without thinking. The room that used to hum with her energy feels hollow now, stripped of color and laughter. Boxes line the walls—neat, impersonal stacks that smell faintly of cardboard and finality.
It takes me a second to notice the labels on some of them.
Kansas City.
I step inside, my pulse thudding. One of the lids is open, and when I lift it, the air catches in my throat. It’s her quilt from our apartment folded neatly inside. The one she used to drag tothe couch for movie nights. The one that still smells like vanilla shampoo and popcorn.
Why is he doing this?
My chest tightens as I back out of the room, the edges of the world blurring. By the time I reach the guest room, my hands are shaking.
There are boxes in here too, stacked neatly near the closet. Some open, some still sealed. I lift the top flap and freeze.
My laptop. My clothes. My life.
“I had your things packed up,” Lorenzo’s voice says behind me.
I jump, spinning around. He’s standing in the doorway and is impossible to read.
“The apartment needed too much work for you to stay there.”
I nod slowly. “I guess that makes sense in a way. But why is it here?”
He steps farther into the room, folding his hands behind his back.
“Why wouldn’t I bring it here?”
I take a step back, searching his face. “Because I don’t live here.”
The silence that follows stretches too long.
I swallow, forcing my voice steady. “Have you had any leads?”
He tilts his head. “Leads?”
“On why Sienna was killed.”
Something flickers across his expression—pain, anger, something colder beneath it—but it’s gone almost instantly. His jaw sets.
“I’ve been busy taking care of you, Miss Miller.”
The formality cuts sharper than any curse.Miss Miller.
I meet his eyes, the old ache twisting into something bitter. “It’s a good thing I’m quite recovered, Mr. Conti.”
