That night, Adrienne sat cross-legged on the bed, a movie playing forgotten in the background. She hadn’t absorbed a single scene. Her attention kept drifting to the door, to the quiet stretch of time Lorenzo had already spent locked away in his study.
She’d been waiting.
Waiting for him to come to bed. Waiting for the moment she could finally ask what Henrietta had meant—what she’d implied so casually, so cruelly. She’d replayed the words over and over, rifling through her memories of Lorenzo, searching for something she might’ve missed.
Nothing fit.
Eventually, she accepted the truth: she’d never get an answer by guessing.
She’d have to ask.
Which begged the question—where the hell was he?!
Adrienne slid off the bed and began pacing, her steps restless. Every few minutes, she crac
