The next day is agony.
Cristiano meets me at the school gates like always, but everything feels different. The air between us is thick with things unsaid. He takes my bag like always, but today the brush of his fingers makes me flinch.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“Mina?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
We walk home in near silence. He keeps glancing at me, those amber eyes searching my face, but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. Every time his arm brushes against mine, my skin tingles. Every time he moves closer, I think about how I made his mother sob. The bruise on his cheek has started to fade to a dull purple, greenish at the edges.
I should tell him what I did, but every time I open my mouth, the words die in my throat. I’m such a coward.
When we reach the mansion, we head around the side to enter through the kitchen, and Cristiano hesitates at the door.
“Will you come to the garden?” he asks.
My heart lurches. The garden. Where I held him and stroked his hair and kissed him. Where everything was terrifying and perfect.
“I can’t. I have homework.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. Hurt and confusion flicker over his face, but he doesn’t push.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says.
“Maybe.”
I slip inside before he can say anything else, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Upstairs in my tiny bedroom, I try to do homework, but I can’t focus. Instead, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that’s happened.
I can’t do this.
I can’t keep this secret from Cristiano. Pretending everything is normal is going to drive me insane. I have to tell him, and then we can figure it out together. If he’s angry with me, then so be it, but I hope he can forgive me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m off the bed and down the stairs. Through the staff corridors, into the main house,and along the corridor toward Cristiano’s bedroom. My blood is rushing so loudly in my ears I can barely hear my own footsteps.
His bedroom is at the end of the hall. I’ve never been inside, even when we were children. His father would fly into a rage if he caught the housekeeper’s daughter in his son’s private space.
My hand is trembling, but I curl it into a fist and force myself to knock.
There are soft footsteps on carpet, and the door swings open.
Cristiano stands there in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. Without his blazer and tie, he looks younger. Softer. But his eyes sharpen when he sees me, surprise flickering in those amber depths.
“Mina. Is everything okay?”
“I need to talk to you.”
He steps back immediately, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I’m already crossing the threshold, and the door is closing behind me with a soft click.
His room is exactly as I remember it. A huge bed that makes my cheeks heat just to glance at it. An antique wardrobe with an iron key in the lock. A desk covered in textbooks and neat stacks of papers.
The curtains are drawn against the evening light, and the room is dim and intimate.
I stand in front of him, my hands twisting together. He’s so close that I can see a few droplets of water on his throat.
