I watched them move away together, something hollow spreading through my chest. Maybe it was the fever weakening my body. Maybe it was the sight of him prioritizing her without a second thought. My legs trembled, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.
He never looked back.
It didn’t matter that I was sick. It didn’t matter that I was standing there alone. In that moment, nothing about me seemed to matter at all.
Rocco wore perfection well—until Antonella appeared. Then everything he tried to hide spilled through the cracks. And he didn’t even realize it.
I forced a thin, bitter smile and turned toward the examination room on my own.
The results were immediate. The thermometer blinked an alarming number—41.3°C. The burn on my wrist had worsened, infected and inflamed, aggravated by stress and neglect. On top of that, a viral fever had set in. The doctor prescribed boiled medicinal herbs and a bitter infusion.
Out of habit, my fingers reached for my phone.
Then I stopped.
Habit was dangerous. Habit was how I’d stayed too long.