The storm had arrived.
Rain slammed against the windows of the De Luca estate like bullets from heaven, the wind howling like a warning. Alessia stood at the edge of the terrace, soaked to the skin, her nightdress clinging to her like a second betrayal. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the garden below in fractured white light.
She didn’t flinch.
She was already drowning in something worse than rain.
Behind her, heavy footsteps approached—but she didn’t turn.
“You’ll catch a fever,” Lorenzo said, his voice rougher than usual.
“I think I already did,” she whispered.
He stepped beside her, not touching, not speaking, just watching her.
The rain painted his shirt to his chest, plastered his hair to his forehead, made him look less like a man and more like a fallen king—d
