"Elena, why were you so cold to Celina?" His voice carried that particular edge—the one he used when he wanted to sound reasonable while making clear he was anything but. "She's one of my people. I was just helping her find a place. The organization hasn't arranged housing yet—is it so wrong for me to step in?"
A pause, then his tone sharpened further.
"When did you become like this? At the birthday gathering, you were sulking the whole time, saying you felt unwell and wanted to leave. I didn't say a word about it, and now you're picking fights?"
Through the phone, I could hear Celina's soft, wounded sniffling—a performance pitched perfectly for her audience of one.
The woman weeping in Luca's presence bore no resemblance to the one who had just sent me those messages, all sugar-coated thorns.
I drew a slow breath, finally understanding her game with perfect clarity. But exhaustion had hollowed me out, leaving no room for defense or explanation.
"You're right," I said quietly. "It's my fault. I was only asking. Don't worry—I'm already home. I didn't wait for you."
The line went dead in my hand, and I watched the city lights blur past the window like dying stars.