Page 107 of Reign

My vision.

“You’re very talented, Elena.”

The compliment lands in a place I don’t have armor for.

“It’s just a sketch.”

Only then does he look at me. “It’s a beautiful one.”

Then he turns and walks away.

Just leaving me there with frozen berries, cherries I said I shouldn’t want, and a compliment sitting open in my chest like he put his hand there and unlocked something without asking.

Chapter 19

Luciano

Aweek with Elena Amato in my house, and the silence has lost some of its appeal.

By Monday morning, Marisol knows to keep Elena’s berries in the freezer. Cherries too, though Elena continues pretending those are a negotiation instead of a preference.

She opens the freezer and pauses at the neatly portioned containers. Her eyes move to the cherries first, then to the coconut water in the pantry, the clean bowl on the counter, and the fork beside it.

Finally, she looks at me.

Her nose crinkles.

It’s an absurdly pretty response to breakfast.

She knows I’ve noticed how she likes it. Worse, she knows I’ve arranged it for her without requiring another irritated explanation before coffee.

Elena makes a show of saying nothing.

I let the silence stretch. Hers says plenty

“You’re very organized,” she says eventually.

“You make that sound like a crime.”

“In this house, it might be.”

She takes the bowl anyway.

Elena treats anything resembling care like a challenge. She’s found, accepting it while criticizing me counts as victory.

She pours coconut water over the berries and carries breakfast to the terrace with her notebook. I stay at the kitchen island with my coffee watching her through the window until she finishes every bite.

By Tuesday, she stops slamming the cabinets.

Not entirely. Elena has principles.

But the full-force assault has become a series of pointed clicks, and I discover I miss some of the dramatics. The slamming announced precisely how offended she was to find everything where she needed it.

That morning, she prepares her breakfast without complaint. Her hair is twisted up with a pencil shoved through it, her fringe brushing her brows as she moves around the kitchen like she’s decided being here is inconvenient but survivable.

She takes her fork from beside the bowl, retrieves the berries, and reaches for the coconut water without glaring at any of it.

Progress.