- Aria
The room still smelled faintly of rain and paper dust. Torn edges of the divorce agreement were gone—swept away by someone who didn’t want to deal with the evidence—but the feeling they left behind clung to the walls like smoke.
I stood by the window, towel wrapped around my shoulders, hair damp and heavy down my back. Outside, the garden lights glowed soft and golden, like nothing ugly had happened inside this house tonight.
Luca came in without knocking.
I didn’t turn around.
“You done sulking?” he asked.
I spun. “Sulking?” I laughed sharply. “You tore up my divorce papers and splashed me with mud like I was roadkill. And you think I’m sulking?”
His jaw tightened. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I forgot. Your version of events is always… cle
