I sit in her garden as the sun rises over the flowers she planted. They’re warm against my palm. Somewhere inside the house, Isabella is sleeping, and I can still feel the ghost of her pulse under my thumb.
I don’t know how to stop this. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t know if I would.
9
ISABELLA
Two days. Silence. Professional distance, working in his office while he finds reasons to be elsewhere. His gaze sliding past me like I’m furniture. Like he didn’t have his hand on my throat and his mouth half an inch from mine.
All of it an act. I’m good at pretending. Years of playing Ghost taught me that. But this kind of pretending has teeth. It bites down every time I catch him not looking at me.
Sunday morning. Rosa has been in the kitchen since dawn, and the house smells like heaven and garlic and a rich simmer that makes my stomach growl despite everything. Sunday dinner is mandatory. Cassia explained the tradition yesterday, gentle about it. Lucia Santoro started it. Rosa maintains it. Every Santoro at the table, no excuses, no exceptions.
Even me, apparently. Even the hacker who doesn’t belong here.
I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at clothes I don’t remember picking out, when I see them. Three dresses. Pushed to the back, still wrapped in tissue paper, tags attached.
I pull out the first one. Green silk, simple cut. The second is black, fitted, elegant in a way that makes me uncomfortable justlooking at it. The third is midnight blue. Dark and rich, almost black until the light catches it. Sweetheart neckline. Fitted waist. Marguerite’s doing. She added these while I was grabbing the more practical things, while Lorenzo stood by the door refusing to look at me.
These are what she meant by “appropriate for evening.”
And something else. Small. Wrapped in tissue at the bottom of the bag. The shape unmistakable. I unwrap it, stare at it, and shove it in the back of the drawer before my face catches fire. Marguerite has either a wicked sense of humor or a very specific idea of what a woman surrounded by Santoro men might need.
Jeans and a clean shirt would be smarter. Show up as exactly who I am. A temporary guest, a tool, a means to an end.
Instead, I pull the dark fabric off its hanger. He’s been avoiding me. Fine. Let him avoid this.
The silk slides over my skin like water. Cool against curves I’ve spent years hiding under hoodies and borrowed T-shirts. I find the zipper, wrestle it up, and turn to face the glass.
Dark hair loose around my shoulders instead of scraped back in a ponytail. Olive skin glowing against the deep blue. The cut fits like Marguerite knew my measurements before I walked in.
I look like a woman who belongs in this world. Good.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way toward the dining room. My heels click against marble, a foreign sound after days of bare feet. I round the corner and nearly collide with someone.
“Oh!” The woman steps back, steadying herself. Dark hair, warm eyes, scrubs exchanged for a soft blue dress. She looks me up and down, and a smile breaks wide. “You must be Isabella.”
Giada Santoro. The healer. I’ve seen her from a distance, but we’ve never spoken.
“And you’re Giada.”
“Gia.” She waves off the formality. “Only people who are in trouble call me Giada.” Warmth in every word. “And you’re theone who’s been making my brother act like a human being for the first time in years.”
My cheeks heat up. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mm-hmm.” She loops her arm through mine like we’ve known each other forever, steering me toward the dining room. “He brought you coffee yesterday. Unprompted. Do you know how many times Lorenzo has brought anyone coffee in the last decade?”
“I assume not many.”
“Zero. The answer is zero.” She squeezes my arm. “Rosa nearly had a heart attack.”
She’s treating me like family instead of a prisoner with a particular skill set.
“You look stunning, by the way.” Gia pulls back to examine me, and her smile turns knowing. “That is a weapon. Who are you trying to kill?”
“No one.”
“Liar.” But she says it without judgment. “Come on. Let’s go see him lose his mind.”
