AUTHORS POV
The grand Lorenzo mansion stood in its cold elegance like it had alway been, bathed in the quiet of early evening except for the maids and guards roaming around. But within the stone walls of pedro’s room, the sweet silence was broken by the shattering of glass.
Pedro stood in the centre of his room, his breath heaving, his chest rising and falling like a man barely keeping the storm within him contained.
The desk lamp lay in pieces at his feet. One of the armchairs had been overturned, its cushions ripped. Books scattered across the floor—his father’s, his own, even the bed sheets and pillows had been sent flying to different corners. A portrait on the wall now hung askew, a hairline crack running through the glass.
He paced in heavy steps, fists clenched, jaw tight.
“She looked right at me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Right in the eyes… and said she didn’t know me.”
His voice cracked as he said it aloud. He ran a hand through his dark hair, tugging at the strands
