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What’s wrong with me? Just because he’s shown a few moments of genuine humanity doesn’t erase the years of secrets, and the countless lies.

He’s been plotting against the Consortium and I wasn’t aware at all. How long has he maintained this double life? In so many ways, he’s a stranger—a man wearing the face of someone I thought I knew.

And yet...

And yet I feel safer with him than I ever felt with Julian.

Julian . His name curdles in my mind like spoiled milk. The asshole sold me. After everything we shared, everything we were to each other, he drugged me and made me think he was finally seeing the truth, only to package me up for someone else.

Does he think this will break me? Or is it simply the last desperate act of a man becoming the monster he always feared he would be?

I pull myself away from these circular thoughts, determined not to let them consume me. I can do that later. Right now, I’m starving.

With one last glance in the mirror to ensure I look more composed than I feel, I head for the door.

It’s a crisp, bright morning as I step onto the patio. The garden breakfast table is magnificent—fresh fruit, bacon, omelettes, warm pastries, silver gleaming against porcelain. It’s the image of a family life I’ve never experienced.

“Ciumachella! Sit here!” Roby pats the chair beside him, his face bright and welcoming. Chocolate smudges the corner of his mouth.

I slide into the seat, very aware of Adrian’s presence across the table.

He’s immaculate in his suit, not a wrinkle to be seen despite his playtime with Roby earlier.

His attention remains fixed on a small tablet beside his plate.

He’s scrolling through what appears to be financial data with the same detached focus I remember from breakfasts at the Harrow penthouse.

He never once looks up to greet me. My heart sinks.

“Did you sleep well?” Lorenzo asks, passing me a basket of pastries with a genuine warmth that feels foreign after weeks of hostility at the Harrows’.

“Better than I have in a long time,” I say, selecting a croissant to avoid meeting Adrian’s eyes—eyes that aren’t looking at me anyway.

“Good! Today we start making you fat again,” Lorenzo announces with a playful grin. “You’re too thin. It’s not healthy.”

Roby giggles, shoving another piece of chocolate-filled pastry into his mouth. “Lolo says we must feed you until your cheeks are round like mine!” He puffs out his cherub cheeks, making Lorenzo laugh.

The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket. When was the last time I heard genuine laughter? When was the last time I felt this kind of affection directed toward me?

“And if my cheeks get round, what then?” I ask Roby, smiling.

He considers this with adorable seriousness. “Then we teach you to play ball! I can teach you.”

“You’ll be an excellent teacher,” I say and ruffle his dark hair.

Adrian remains silent, perfectly composed across the table. Not a single glance my way, not one word. The warmth from last night’s embrace—when he’d held me as I sobbed against his chest—seems to have vanished. This Adrian is the one I recognize: controlled, distant, and untouchable.

Lorenzo fills the silence, telling stories of Roby’s adventures at school, speaking of future plans for the estate grounds, asking gentle questions about my preferences for food and activities. His attention feels like a gift, one I’m so grateful for.

My cousin.

I answer, I smile, I engage—all while the wound of Adrian’s indifference festers beneath my skin.

A soft chime interrupts the flow of conversation. Lorenzo’s expression darkens as he checks his phone, the easy smile dropping from his face for a heartbeat before he masks it. Without a word, he slides the phone to Adrian.

Adrian’s fingers stop their rhythmic scrolling. His jaw tightens—a microscopic movement that most wouldn’t notice, but I’ve spent ten years learning to read the subtle language of his repressed rage. The tendons in his neck stand out briefly before he relaxes them.

Something’s wrong.

Neither of them explains, and I don’t ask. I need a break from all the drama. And even here, in this supposed sanctuary, there are secrets kept from me. Perhaps there always will be.

Adrian stands abruptly and drops his napkin on the plate of food he didn’t touch. “Excuse me,” he says to Lorenzo, who nods with understanding.

Then, finally, those blue eyes flick to me—a fleeting acknowledgment of my existence that feels more dismissive than genuine. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says, his voice cool and professional, as if addressing a hotel guest rather than the woman who trembled in his arms just hours ago.

The words slam into me, shocking my system. Who is this man? Where’s the “Dante” who spoke to me with such honesty? Where’s the tenderness that enveloped me last night?

He turns without waiting for a response, moving toward the house with long strides.

Something inside me boils over. After everything—after thinking he was dead, after mourning him, after discovering he’s alive— this is all I get? A courtesy extended to a stranger?

“That’s it?” The words burst from me as I stand, the metal chair legs scraping harshly against the stone patio.

Adrian pauses then turns. His expression remains perfectly neutral, a mask so flawlessly crafted it could hang in a museum. “Do you need something?”

Need something? Need something?

Rage simmers beneath my skin, threatening to erupt through every pore.

I need explanations! I need honesty. I need to understand who you really are beneath all these shifting personas. I need to know if anything between us was ever real, you jerk.

But the words stick in my throat, tangled in the complex web of emotions that Adrian Harrow has always inspired in me.

Instead, a strangled sound escapes—a primitive expression of everything I can’t articulate. Without another word, I drop into my chair with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Adrian leaves.

Lorenzo watches me with sympathetic eyes but says nothing. Roby, bless his innocent heart, immediately launches into a story about a frog he found in the garden last week, oblivious to the tension swirling around the adults.

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. Maybe I only imagined the change in Adrian.

Maybe last night was just another manipulation, another performance designed to get my cooperation.

Or maybe he simply can’t maintain that kind of emotional vulnerability for long—the weight of decades of repression crushing any attempt at it.

I stab a piece of fruit. The problem is my own na?ve heart—still stupid enough to hope after everything I’ve endured.