But the truth is simpler and uglier.
I needed the time because I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
Because agreeing to let him stay wasn’t really a choice. Not if he was right. Not if Bellandi really is watching my building. Not if this is bigger than a deal and a bruised ego and onereckless night that keeps trying to crawl back into my life and take over.
If I’m in danger, then pretending I’m not doesn’t protect me.
So I said yes.
I walk out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, then pause. Quickly, I walk back into the bathroom and cross to the door that leads to the hallway. I unlock it and dash across the bathroom to the door leading to my bedroom.
I close it behind me and lock it.
I’m going to have to remember to close that door at night from now on, in case Antonio gets up to use the bathroom.
I continue into my bedroom and sit at my vanity. In my robe, with a towel wrapped around my hair, ready to do skincare like my world hasn’t just completely changed.
Cleanser. Toner. Serum. The familiar ritual steadies my hands. It gives my brain something repetitive and concrete to cling to while everything else runs wild in the background.
I smooth moisturizer over my cheeks and stare at myself for a second.
I don’t want to acknowledge the other part.
The part that whispers that Bellandi isn’t the only reason my stomach is tight.
The part that knows the real problem is that Antonio Conti is in my apartment.
In my space.
Breathing my air.
And I don’t know if I can handle him here—this close—all day and night for an undetermined amount of time.
My apartment is fairly big by New York standards. Enough room to stretch out and breathe. But not enough room that we wouldn’t be… well, in the same room all day. He offered to sleep on the couch without hesitation, not even proposing that he sleep in my room with me.
I do have an extra bedroom. I can create distance.
Maybe.
I reach for my eye cream, tap it under my eyes, and my gaze flicks to the little acrylic organizer on my dresser.
Makeup.
Everything is lined up in neat rows—foundation, concealer, bronzer, palettes, brushes. A familiar temptation hums in my fingertips, the impulse to put something on because someone I’m insanely attracted to—despite everything else—is here.
I hover there for a second, staring at the products. And then I feel a flare of stubborn anger.
No.
This is my home. I’m not going to dress up for himin it.
Not when he’s the reason my nerves are still buzzing. Not when my body still remembers him too well. Not when I’m already compromised in ways I can’t afford.
Deliberately, I turn away from the makeup and walk to my drawers.
I open the top one and pull out what I want without overthinking it—soft, comfortable, stay-at-home clothes. The things I wear when no one is watching. An oversized T-shirt, worn thin from washes, and a pair of loose lounge shorts I’ve had for years. Practical. Unimpressive.
I set them on the bed and unwrap my hair from the towel.
