It takes them a week to build my new cage.
Okay, technically it’s been in the works longer—architects don’t draw up plans overnight—but that’s how it feels: seven days of hammering, drilling, and men in dusty boots tramping through corridors that used to be silent.
Seven days of the internet dissecting my absence like a corpse.
Seven days of Dante coming and going at odd hours, smelling like smoke and expensive coffee, his bandage slowly disappearing under healing skin.
“Stop pacing,” Mia says, flopping onto my bed. “You’re going to wear a groove in the marble, and then Dante will send an invoice.”
“I’m not pacing,” I say, turning mid‑stride. “I’m…cardio.”
She snorts. “Your Fitbit is in hell.”
A knock interrupts any comeback I might have.
Luca stands in the doorway when I open it,
