Lorenzo
Her face was still buried in her palms, shoulders trembling—not with weakness, not with tears, but with a rage she hadn’t yet found the words for. A good sign. Rage was better than despair. Rage was fuel. Rage meant she wasn’t going to crumple.
I couldn’t afford her to crumple.
“Sindy,” I said, voice low, deliberate. She didn’t look up. I closed the distance in two steps, towering over her where she sat at the edge of the mattress. My shadow swallowed her whole. My hand gripped her wrists, pulling them down from her face. She tried to resist, but I didn’t let her.
Her eyes—God, those eyes—were wide, stormy, burning with a hatred she wanted so desperately to hold on to, as if clinging to it might shield her from the truth I had just shoved into her lap.
“You want to curse me ag
