Vincenzo Orisini was no longer the composed man.
His usual control cracked just enough to show something deeper beneath.
His hand crossed the table without hesitation.
Long fingers extended.
Palm open.
Reaching for her like he could physically steady her heart.
Like he could keep it from failing.
Across from him—
Violet swallowed hard.
Her lashes fluttered once.
Twice.
Carefully.
She lifted her gaze just enough to meet his.
“I just felt a sharp pain...” she whispered.
“...right here.” Her delicate fingers rose, pressing lightly against the center of her chest.
The gesture was small.
But intentional.
“My failing heart...” she added, her voice thinning just slightly at the edges, “...reminding me it’s running out of time.”
The words were gentle. Almost apologetic.
But the weight behind them—was not.
It was precise.
Each syllable chosen to land exactly where it should.
And they landed.
Not just with him.
But with me.
I felt it.
The way she said it—the careful emphasis, the softness threaded through each word—wasn’t accidental.
She wanted me to hear it.
To understand it.
To feel it.
