I sat on the edge of one of the armchairs, posture stiff, hands clasped tightly together in my lap.
My fingers were locked so firmly that my knuckles ached, skin stretched pale from the pressure.
I forced myself to breathe evenly, but every inhale felt shallow—like my lungs couldn’t quite catch up to my thoughts.
Across from me, Vincenzo sat on the sofa.
Completely at ease.
One arm draped along the backrest, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.
His posture was relaxed in a way that almost felt insulting, given what was at stake.
He held his phone loosely in one hand, scrolling with quiet, casual focus.
His expression was unreadable—until it wasn’t.
Every so often, the corner of his mouth would lift.
Just a fraction.
Barely there.
But enough.
Enough to make something inside me tighten painfully.
Vincenzo Orsini didn’t smile.
Not like that.
Not in a way that lingered.
Not in a way that looked soft.
Not in a way that felt... given.
And certainly not at me.
My chest felt tighter with every passing second.
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I rose silently from the chair, my bare feet pressing against the cool marble floor without a sound.
The chill seeped into my skin, grounding me as I moved, but it did nothing to steady the storm building inside me.
I walked behind him.
Close enough now to see the glow of his screen from over his shoulder.
I leaned forward slightly, bracing my hands lightly against the back of the sofa as I looked down.
And there she was.
Violet.
Her Instagram feed filled his screen.
