Francesca shifted at his side, her face pale, exhaustion written into every movement. Lorenzo noticed instantly. His focus snapped to her as if nothing else existed.
“You’re not feeling well,” he murmured.
Then, to the driver, “Hold off for a bit. We’ll go up first.”
I stepped aside without comment as he guided her toward the elevator. For a brief moment, Lorenzo paused and looked at me, as though waiting for something—anger, hurt, a plea. I gave him nothing. After a second, he turned away and ushered Francesca inside.
As the doors slid shut, the reflective surface caught them together—her expression soft with gratitude, his posture instinctively shielding her. The image dragged up a memory I hadn’t thought of in years: Lorenzo carrying my suitcase into his penthouse, grinning as he joked that I might as well start calling it our home, that I was already halfway to being his wife.
Aunt Lyra released a slow breath. “Are you truly okay with this, Sofia?”
I gave her a small, contained smile.
“It doesn’t matter if I am,” I said. “If that’s where his loyalty rests, then I’ll accept it.”