“I’m fine,” I lie. “Is Mr. Conti still here?”
“No, ma’am. He left early this morning. He’s spending the day with Ms. Marino before their event.”
My heart skips. “Event?”
“They’re attending a charity gala downtown. It’s supposed to be quite the occasion.”
I nod, pretending that the words don’t twist like a knife. Charity gala. With Francesca.
I picture her on his arm, tall and elegant in some glittering dress, the cameras flashing. Him at her side, all dark suit and control. Everything about it feels right. Everything except how much I hate the thought of it.
“He did leave something for you,” Rosa adds, gesturing toward the foyer. “On the table.”
Curiosity and dread fight for dominance as I cross the marble floor. On the small table near the elevator sits a cream-colored envelope with my name written across it in Lorenzo’s careful, slanted handwriting.
I hesitate before opening it.
Inside is a sleek black card and a single folded note. The scent of his cologne clings faintly to the paper.
Miss Miller,
Use this card to buy whatever you may need to feel at home.
That’s all it says. No greeting. No apology. No warmth. Not even his freaking name. Just the same cold, controlled distance he gives everyone else.
I stare at the words until they blur, the paper trembling in my hand. Does he really think this is what I want? A credit card? A gesture that costs him nothing?
My chest tightens. I press the note flat against the table, my reflection staring back at me in the glossy surface.
Fine.
If he wants me to feelat home,I’ll show him exactly what that means.
I go back to my room and grab my cellphone. A quick internet search shows a nearby store that can deliver a laptop within the hour.
“Let’s see how at home you really want me to be,” I murmur as I hit ‘buy’.
Four hours later, my room looks like a high-end boutique exploded.
There’s a brand-new laptop still gleaming in its box, shopping bags from luxury stores piled high, tissue paper spilling like confetti. The air smells faintly of new leather and Chanel No. 5—the kind of scent that clings to people who’ve never had to check a price tag in their lives.
A thousand dollars for a lipstick. A designer eyeshadow palette I almost didn’t buy.
Almost.
Because somewhere between the guilt and the hurt, I remembered something Sienna once said.
It was our sophomore year, right after her father canceled yet another weekend visit because of “business.” She’d been furious that day, pacing our dorm in her fuzzy socks, her eyes wild.
“He thinks throwing money at me will fix things,” she’d said, snatching up the credit card he’d sent with her for emergencies. Then she’d smiled that dangerous smile. “So I’ll show him.”
And she did. Shoes. Dresses. A brand-new phone she didn’t even need. She turned every dollar into proof that he couldn’t buy her love, even as she spent it.
I remember watching her and thinking she was reckless.
Now, I understand her perfectly.
So when the guilt creeps in, I shove it down and pull the next bag closer. I set up the laptop. I line the make-up on the vanity. I slide the jewelry box open just to admire the shimmer.
