But her gaze drops to my mouth, and every ounce of control I’ve built begins to crumble.
I lean in—just enough that I can taste her breath, coffee, and courage and sin—and she doesn’t move.
Her lashes flutter, and for one suspended heartbeat, I think I might actually lose myself to her.
Then—
“Papà!”
The sound slices through the moment like a blade.
We both freeze.
Sofia’s voice echoes down the hall, trembling. “Papà!”
I pull back instantly. The air rushes between us, cold and real again.
“Nightmare,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She nods, wide-eyed, stepping back. “Go. She needs you.”
I don’t look back as I cross the room, but I can still feel her watching me—the heat, the tension, the almost that shouldn’t have been.
Sofia’s crying when I reach her room, tangled in blankets, clutching her rabbit.
“Principessa,” I whisper, sitting beside her. “It’s just a dream.”
She sniffles and buries her face against my chest. “You were gone.”
“I’m here.”
I hold her until her breathing evens out, until the tremors fade.
But when I glance at the doorway, I see her.
Isabella.
Standing there, barefoot and quiet, her hand pressed against the doorframe. The worry in her eyes isn’t for herself—it’s for Sofia.
And that’s what finally breaks me.
Because at that moment, I realize she doesn’t belong in my world… but my world’s already wrapped itself around her.
Sofia falls asleep with her head against my chest, her small hand still gripping my shirt.
I stay until her breathing steadies, until the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the nightlight.
I brush her curls from her face and whisper, “Ti amo, Principessa,” before I finally stand.
The house is silent.
Too silent.
It’s late—past midnight, maybe later. The kind of hour when ghosts come easier.
I walk down the hall toward Isabella’s room. The door’s half open, a sliver of light from the city spilling across the floor.
She’s asleep.
