Sara Ikari Rodriguez
The Rodriguez mansion had always felt too large for me. Too polished. Too full of names and portraits I didn't recognize.
But this time—packing to leave—it felt like I was stepping away from something more than a house.
It felt like I was walking away from warmth.
Maria had been up since sunrise, fluttering between the kitchen and hallway, making sure breakfast was set, bags were checked, and that "the staff didn't forget to put extra almond cookies in the basket."
"They're his favorite," she whispered to me, smiling softly, "but I know he pretends not to like them."
I laughed politely.
I didn't tell her the truth.
That he hadn't touched anything sweet in days.
Not since that night.
Not since me.
Matio stood at the front steps, his posture straight, hands tu
