“This room smells like depression and spite,” Susan mutters, opening another window. “A little sunshine won’t kill you.”
I don’t respond, just close the bathroom door, making sure Onyx isn’t following me in here. After locking the door, I place the fresh clothes on the sink and drop the blanket.
I walk into the shower and turn on the water. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the water sluice over me.
The water beats down on my skin, but it doesn’t wash away the memory of his mouth. His hands. The way my body answered him without hesitation.
My muscles begin to relax under the steady pressure. I use the expensive-looking soap in the dispenser, working it into a lather between my palms before washing every inch of my body.
I wash my hair twice, scrubbing harder than necessary. Focusing on the simple, physical task instead of the way my stomach flips at the thought of seeinghimagain.
Not because I’m afraid. But because I’m not.
When I finally turn off the water, the bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror completely fogged over. I dry myself with a towel so plush and thick it feels like wrapping up in a cloud.
I pull on a fresh underwear set and reach for my clothes that the woman—Susan—washed. It’s such a simple thing, but wearing my own clothes means more than it should.
As I finish getting ready, I feel more awake and better about having to face Raffaele. When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m surprised to find the room transformed. Susan has stripped the bed completely, replacing the tangled sheets with fresh linens in a soft cream color.
The windows remain open, cold air circulating through the space, sweeping away the stale atmosphere. Most surprising of all is the sight of Susan sitting on the edge of the newly made bed, gently stroking Onyx, who purrs loudly as he arches into her touch.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Susan says without looking up. “Been through something rough, hasn’t he? That leg looks like it never healed properly.”
I nod, unexpectedly touched by her gentleness with my cat. “A fall,” I say simply, not wanting to explain Maxwell’s cruelty.
“Hmm.” Susan gives Onyx a final pat before standing. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” I mumble, anxiety tightening my chest.
Susan leads me through the doorway and down the hallway to the staircase with railings that curve elegantly to the foyer below.
The house is even more imposing in daylight. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating the sleek furniture and polished floors. Nothing feels lived in or welcoming. It’s a showcase of wealth and power, not a home.
Susan guides me through another doorway into a large, open kitchen that feels surprisingly warm compared to the rest of the house. Gleaming stainless steel appliances line one wall, while a massive island dominates the center of the space. Two stools sit at the counter, one with a place setting already arranged.
“Sit,” Susan instructs, pointing to the stool. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Water, please,” I reply, perching hesitantly on the edge of the seat.
My stomach growls at the sight of the spread before me—fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, and what looks like homemade bread beside a small pot of butter and jam. I clench my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to grab the nearest piece of food and shove it into my mouth.
“Where’s Raffaele?” I ask, looking around. Since he wanted me down here, I expected he was already waiting. I don’t know which part unsettles me more, that he isn’t here… or that I’m disappointed.
Susan places a glass of water in front of me with a pointed look. “Working,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. The word makes it sound normal. Ordinary. As if men like him simply go to the office and return for dinner. “Go ahead and eat,” Susan prompts, sliding the bread closer to me.
The aroma of it literally makes my mouth water, while a pang of homesickness hits me unexpectedly. She cuts a thick slice of bread and places it on my plate, followed by a dollop of butter she quickly spreads out.
The scent rises to my nostrils, overwhelming any remaining resistance. My hand moves of its own accord, picking up the bread. I hesitate for just a moment before taking a small bite.
The flavor explodes across my tongue—rich, yeasty, with a hint of sweetness. My body reacts instantly, demanding more. I take another bite, larger this time, chewing slowly to savor it. The butter adds a silky richness that makes me close my eyes briefly in pleasure.
“Good,” Susan says, adding yogurt and berries to my plate. “Now that you’re finally eating, we can actually talk like civilized adults.”
I don’t know how to react to that, so I just nod.
Despite my best intentions to eat minimally, my body betrays me with each bite. The yogurt is creamy and tart, the berries bursting with sweetness. I alternate between the bread and fruit, trying to pace myself but growing more eager with each mouthful.
Sitting here while she practically shoves food at me is weird. Most of my life, I’ve been the one doing stuff for Mom and Sabrina. But this woman washed my clothes and brought them to me, tidied up my room and changed the sheets, made breakfast and now she’s ensuring I eat.
