She’s not wrong about the breaking.
Later, passing the office on my way to the kitchen, I hear the sharp shatter of glass.
I pause, out of sight of the doorway.
Luca’s voice: “That vase was older than me.”
Dante: “It survived this long. It can handle a crack.”
Luca: “You know that’s not what I’m talking—”
I move on before I can hear more.
I don’t want to picture him in there, fists bloodied, furniture broken because of me.
I’ve had enough of imagining the things he does in rooms I can’t see.
—
That night, he came to my room.
Knocks.
Waits.
“Luna,” he says through the door. “Open.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, hands clenched in my lap, heart pounding.
The internet’s headlines, Elena’s words, Rafael’s warnings—they all swirl in my head.
Bought, saved, associated, owned.
I ge
