I woke up in a tangle of silk sheets, the scent of lavender faint in the air. For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the ceiling came into focus, tall and intricate with its soft ambient lights, and I remembered. The penthouse. The place that was supposed to be my safe haven, my quiet escape from the noise of the world.
But something was off.
I could feel it. That prickling sensation at the base of my neck. The hairs on my arms rising without reason. I blinked slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
And then I saw him.
Lorenzo.
Sitting in the chair beside my bed.
Just sitting there.
His posture was relaxed, almost too much so, as if he’d been sitting there for hours, maybe longer. But his eyes—they were anything but calm.
They were shattered.
Bleeding with hurt. With something deeper than anger. Something rawer than rage.
My throat dried.
“Lorenzo…” I whispered.
His voice was quiet. Steady. Dangerous.
"Is it because I’m old?"
I blinked, confused. "What?"
His gaze didn’t
