Page 77 of Luca

He studies my face, and I wonder what he's seeing. Not Sofia anymore. He's looking at me—really me.

"You realize the impossible position you've put me in," he says finally.

"I know."

"My family doesn't tolerate deception. They don't forgive breaches of trust, especially ones that could make them look weak or foolish. They won’t be able to overlook this deception."

"I know."

"They could demand your death for this. And Sofia's or your father’s."

"I know all of this. I’ve always known. That’s why I had to keep lying." My voice is steady, but inside I'm screaming. "What are you going to do?"

"I haven’t decided."

He sits down in the chair across from the bed, staring at me. "I need more answers. Tell me about your life. Your real life. Before all this. Don’t leave anything important out."

"What else do you want to know?"

"Where you've been, what you've done. Who you really are."

So, I tell him everything.

About our mother passing away from cancer when I was seventeen leaving me all alone in the world. How I left our tiny apartment with nothing but a backpack and determination. About working my way across Europe, learning languages and skills I never knew I'd need. About the hostels and trains and temporary jobs that taught me how to adapt and survive.

About Prague, where I spent time learning to blend in and disappear when necessary.

About Carlos, and the other friends I made in the backpacker community, people who taught me that family isn't just blood but choice.

About the freedom I gave up to save my sister, and how I've been slowly suffocating in Sofia's careful, controlled world.

"You hate it here with me," he says when I finish. "This life. Being Sofia. You hate it all."

"Not all of it. I hate the confinement and the lack of freedom. But I don't hate everything about it."

"What don't you hate?"

"You, Luca,” I reply. “I could never hate you."

The admission hangs between us, honest and dangerous. I've given him everything now—the truth about the switch, about Sofia, about myself. The only thing left is to wait and see what he does with it.

"This whole time you’ve been selling me a woman who doesn't exist," he says quietly.

"Of course she exists. The woman is me. The real me. The woman you know."

I step closer to him, drawn by something I can't name and don't want to fight anymore. He looks up at me, and I see something other than anger in his eyes.

"What am I supposed to do with all this?" he asks.

"Whatever you decide—whether you protect me or destroy me—I want you to know that I don't regret it. Any of it. Saving Sofia, lying to you, falling for you despite knowing it was dangerous. I'd make the same choices again. There are no regrets. I don’t regret one moment of time I spent with you."

"Even knowing what it might cost you?"

"Even then."

He stands up abruptly, setting down his whiskey glass with enough force that it cracks against the marble surface.

"I need time to think," he says. "About what this means, about what I'm going to tell my family."