(Olivia’s POV)
The night after the gala, sleep didn’t come easily.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city below. The events of the evening replayed in my mind on a loop—James’s fury, Armando’s cool dominance, and then Isabella’s cryptic warning. You’re his most valuable piece.
What did she mean?
I turned on my side, glancing toward Armando. He was sprawled in his chair by the window, still dressed in his slacks and shirt, nursing a glass of whiskey like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His gaze was distant, his expression unreadable, but something about the tension in his shoulders told me his mind was as restless as mine.
I should’ve just asked him outright. About Isabella. About James. About everything. But I didn’t.
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