Marco looked away. "The old man has quite the temper,” he said as though that explained her father’s anger.
Lark crossed her arms over her chest. "You think?" An awkward silence settled between them, and finally, Marco shrugged.
"Anyway, don't keep him waiting,” Marco ordered. He pushed away from the wall and disappeared down the staircase. Neither Lark nor Dante moved until his footsteps faded.
Dante exhaled. "He saw too much."
"He saw almost nothing,” Lark said.
"He saw enough,” Dante insisted.
Lark rubbed her temples. "You really think he'll tell my father?"
"I don't know,” Dante admitted. That answer frightened her more than if he'd said yes, because Dante always seemed certain. If he wasn't, then she knew that things were getting worse.
"You should go,” she said.
His jaw tightened. "I don't want to leave you."
"You don't have much choice,” she reminded.
"No." His eyes locked onto hers. "I don't." For one reckless second, she wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to tell him to lock the bedroom door or to run. Hell, she wanted to tell him to do something—anything other than to continue pretending that everything was fine.
Instead, she stepped backward. "I'll be fine,” she lied.
He looked unconvinced. "Lark.”
"I know." She gave him a sad smile. "I'll stay in my room." He hesitated another second before nodding, and when he finally walked away, every instinct inside her screamed after him—don’t leave- but she swallowed the words because asking him to stay would only make everything harder.
Her bedroom had never felt smaller as the lock clicked behind her. Normally, the sound filled her with rage, but tonight, she just felt lonely. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the balcony doors toward the Chicago skyline at the thousands of lights and millions of people. Freedom was only a few hundred yards away, but she never felt farther from it.
Her fingers drifted to her cheek, where the sting from her father's slap had faded, but the humiliation hadn't. She was an asset—a means to an end. She wrapped her arms around herselfas questions filled her head. Was this why every boyfriend had mysteriously disappeared? Or why every friend she'd ever made had slowly drifted away? Had her father declined every invitation on her behalf? He hadn't been protecting her all this time; he was preserving his merchandise, and that realization made her stomach revolt.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Dante never knocked. The door opened before she answered, and Maria slipped inside carrying a tray. The older housekeeper smiled gently. "I brought you tea."
Lark blinked. "I didn't ask for tea."
"I know,” she said, closing the door quietly. "You also didn't eat dinner."
Lark looked away. "I'm not hungry."
Maria set the tray down anyway. "You should eat something."
"I said—" Lark started.
"I know what you said,” Maria interrupted, surprising her. Maria had worked in the Santos household for almost twenty years, and she rarely spoke unless spoken to, but tonight, something was different.
"You've been crying,” Maria said, changing the subject.
Lark laughed bitterly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone looking,” Maria said, pouring tea into a delicate porcelain cup. "Your mother used to cry the same way."
Lark froze. "My mother?" No one talked about Isabella Santos—ever. Even mentioning her name usually resulted in one of Rafael's icy stares. "You knew her?"
Maria smiled sadly. "I loved her."
Lark's pulse quickened. "What was she like?"
