Adrienne lay awake, staring at the ceiling as the fan hummed behind her, its rhythm too loud in the quiet room. The mattress beneath her felt unfamiliar, wrong. She shifted, then shifted again.
Dimitri slept on a separate mattress a few feet away, turned on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head. Lorenzo had claimed the sofa earlier, his back to them, rigid even in rest. After the fight, they’d moved through the house like ghosts—no words, no glances. When they finally found a livable room near the drawing room, exhaustion had won.
Or something like it.
Since none of them were really asleep.
Adrienne exhaled slowly, then again. Her chest felt tight, heavy with thoughts she couldn’t outrun. No matter how she rearranged things in her mind, she always ended up at the same conclusion:
