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This time, he didn’t move. He just held her, kissing her temple.

However, only minutes later, he was pressing her under himself again.

***

Lorenzo woke to the sound of clattering in the distance.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back, eyes still heavy with sleep. His hand reached across the bed, searching. Empty—and cold.

His brows pulled together. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his pants. Hair tousled, eyes half-closed, he walked out of the bedroom.

"I need to make this woman understand she doesn’t get out of bed until I do," he muttered under his breath, voice low and gravelly.

But the moment he stepped into the living room, he froze.

Krystal was dragging a suitcase toward the door.

His confusion turned to a deep frown. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, taking slow, uncertain steps toward her.

Krystal’s head snapped up. Her eyes widened for a second, like she hadn’t expected him to be awake. Then, just as quickly, she composed herself.

"I’m leaving," she said simply.

"Leaving where?" His voice came out rough, like gravel scraping the back of his throat.

"Out of the country," she said calmly. "I made the arrangements weeks ago. My flight’s today."

Lorenzo’s expression hardened. In a blink, he closed the distance between them, snatching the suitcase from her hand and shoving it aside. It slid across the floor and slammed into the couch.

"You're leaving now? After everything? After sleeping with me last night?!” His voice was raw, seething. "You’ve got a life here. I live here! Where the hell are you going?!"

"You don’t live with me. And we’re already divorced," she said without flinching.

His chest tightened. His jaw clenched as he stepped closer and gripped her arm—not hard, but enough to stop her from walking away.

"Krystal," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Krystal… don’t leave. Please. Just stay. We’ll sort everything out. I’ll fix everything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just don’t walk out on me now."

She sighed and turned away, walking back to the bedroom, grabbing the suitcase by the couch and dragging it in the bedroom with herself. Lorenzo followed instantly.

In the room she started gathering things, sliding them into her bag. Phone, charger, a few personal items—her movements quick, distracted.

"There’s nothing left to fix," she said quietly, not looking at him. "You didn’t have time for the divorce, so I submitted the papers myself already."

"What?!" he snapped, stunned. He felt the air knocked out of his lungs.

He watched her shove the last of her things into her bag and walked back to the suitcase, completely unfazed, like she hadn’t just shattered him in three words.

His body went rigid. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His chest tightened, and his voice rushed out in desperation. "Grandpa called. He wants to see you. He’s not feeling well."

Krystal froze.

Her hand gripped the suitcase handle tighter, her shoulders stiff. She didn’t want to stay. But Grandpa… She couldn’t ignore him—especially not if he was sick.

She remembered the day she married into the Moretti family, how Grandpa had taken her aside and said, ‘I don’t have a granddaughter, but you’re the closest I’ve got. No matter what happens, promise me you’ll still visit me often. Don’t disappear on me, okay?’

And she had promised she’d always come to visit.