It started with the sound of footsteps.
Not hurried. Not cautious.
Just… certain.
Aria was in the greenhouse, a hidden part of the estate she’d discovered two mornings ago. It smelled of lavender and rosemary and something else—something untamed. The glass panes dripped with dew, and light filtered through like secrets slipping between fingers.
She had come here to be alone.
But she should have known by now—Luciano didn’t care much for doors or distance.
He stepped in, casting a long shadow across the tiled floor.
Aria didn’t look up. “Is this your way of checking in or checking control?”
“Neither,” he said, pausing. “You weren’t in your room.”
“And?”
“And I wondered if you’d left me.”
Her head turned at that. “Would it matter?”
Luciano’s gaze held hers across the rows of potte
