ISABELLA
Adrian didn’t come home for dinner.
I kept glancing at the clock, telling myself he’d walk through the door any minute, that I’d hear his footsteps on the stairs, that he’d call out my name the way he always did when he came home late.
But the minutes kept passing.
The maids set the table for one.
Just one.
The sight of it made something in my chest tighten. I sat down anyway, pushing food around my plate, taking small bites I barely tasted. The house felt too big, too quiet, too empty without him.
Vito wandered through the dining room at one point, hair a mess, glasses sliding down his nose, holding a laptop in one hand and a sandwich in the other.
“Not hungry?” he asked, nodding at my barely touched plate.
“Not really.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. “He’ll be back.”
