Chapter 20
Lucia
The gala doesn’t endwhen we leave it. It rides out with me. It clings to my throat like smoke, to my tongue like I swallowed something sharp. It sticks to my skin like perfume I didn’t choose, like glitter you can’t wash off, like the sound has teeth and it’s still biting even though the doors are shut behind us.
The music follows us out through marble and glass. Muffled but persistent. Laughter trailing after it like a ribbon, light and careless and sure of itself.
My ears ring as the car door closes. Turo doesn’t let go of my hand. Not when I slide into the seat. Not when the door shuts. Not when the driver pulls away and the city smears into streaks of light behind tinted windows.
My body starts shaking the second no one can see me anymore. And the worst part is the relief. Not relief that it’s over. Because it isn’t. Not really. Relief that I can stop performing. That I can stop holding my face in the exact shape offinewhile strangers laugh and men bid on me like I’m an object.
My nerves have been holding their breath all night, and now they remember they’re allowed to inhale. The inhale comes out broken. I hate myself for it. For how fast my hands start trembling. For how my stomach turns like it’s trying to emptyitself of humiliation. For the hot pressure behind my eyes that I refuse to let spill, because tears are a currency in Marco’s world and I learned a long time ago they never buy you mercy.
I don’t pull my hand away. I should. My brain screams at me to do it.Don’t accept touch. Don’t accept comfort. Don’t accept anything that can be used later.
But my fingers stay where they are, wrapped around his like my body made a decision without consulting my fear.
His thumb presses once against my knuckles. He watches me without turning his head fully, the way you watch an animal that might bolt if you move too fast.
“You’re staying nearby,” he says.
My throat is too tight for a lie. “A motel.”
My voice comes out thin. Wrong. Like I’m embarrassed of the word even as I say it. Like the place I’ve been keeping my son safe is something dirty.
His gaze shifts, quick and sharp. “Where?”
I tell him. My stomach clenches the second the address leaves my mouth, like I just gave him access to something sacred. Like I just handed him my hiding place on a silver platter.
His fingers tighten once around mine, a small, controlled pressure that feels like punctuation. “I’ll have the room next to yours.”
My stomach drops so hard, it’s physical.
“You don’t need to…” My voice catches. I try again, softer, sharper, more controlled. “You don’t need to do that.”
My mind races ahead, already trying to outmaneuver the implications.
If he’s next door, Nico is closer to him.
If he’s next door, I’m not alone.
If I’m not alone, I can’t breathe.
If he’s next door, Marco can’t get to us as easily.
If he’s next door, what does he expect?
If he expects anything, I can’t pay it.
If I take safety from him, what does it cost later?
He doesn’t blink. “I do.”
And something in my chest twists because this doesn’t sound like control. It sounds like… need.
Like he’s the one falling, and he’s grabbing for the closest thing to anchor.
I swallow hard, because confusion is dangerous and my body is full of it.
