An unfortunate history?
My brows pulled together in confusion.
How could that even be possible?
Rafael belonged to a world built on old money and political influence, Spanish to the bone, with a surname that made people lower their voices whenever it was spoken.
And me? I was just the blind Italian girl who had quietly crossed borders searching for a life that would hurt less than the last one.
Men like him did not collide with women like me. They barely noticed we existed.
So why did he speak as though our lives had crossed long before tonight?
“Do not be a second late to my office tomorrow,” Rafael said. Each word fell clean and final, like stone being set into place.
Then he turned.
This time, he didn’t stop again.
His footsteps moved away, steady and unhurried, retreating through the wreckage of my doorway.
I heard the broken wood scrape faintly as he stepped over it, the night air slipping in behind him as he crossed the threshold.
And then—
Silence.
I stayed still for a moment longer, listening.
Waiting.
Making sure he was truly gone.
Only when the last trace of him faded completely did my body betray me.
The breath I’d been holding rushed out in a shaky exhale.
My shoulders dropped.
The tension snapped.
I sank deeper into the armchair, my fingers immediately finding my wrists. The skin there was tender, bruised—still warm where the cuffs had dug in earlier.
I pressed lightly, wincing as a dull ache pulsed beneath the surface, but my mind was elsewhere, caught in a loop I couldn’t break. Rafael’s final words wouldn’t leave me alone.
They circled. Repeated. Settled deep, then rose again like something determined to be heard.
We share an “unfortunate” history.
I wished I could ask him what he meant. Demand an explanation, even.
The calm in his voice hadn’t softened the meaning. If anything, it had made it worse.
I pressed my fingers lightly against my temples, as if I could physically push the memory out.
He had said it right after reading my name.
Loretta Orsini.
