That is the word that rises, unbidden and merciless. Not because the apartment itself is loved. Because whoever was brought here was meant to be. I see it everywhere at once.
The warm throw folded neatly over the arm of the sofa. Fresh flowers on the kitchen island. A bowl of fruit. A tray with tea things set out as if someone’s comfort has been anticipated. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair that definitely does not belong to Lorenzo.
He made a place for her. Not a room A place.
I stand there for one stunned second too long, and the pain of it is so sharp it almost makes me laugh. So this is what it looks like to be the first choice. I blink hard and tell myself not to be pathetic. This isn’t about me.
Itcannotbe about me.
A woman in black steps into view from near the hall.
“Can I help you?”
I lift my chin. “I’m here to see Miss Miller.”
Her gaze flickers over me, to my stomach, then back to my face. I know the moment she places me. I wonder whether Lorenzo has told his guards about me. About the wife he left in the dark house while he brought another woman here into the sun.
“Wait here,” she says.
A minute later, footsteps sound in the hall.
Then Birdie appears.
She’s barefoot. Wearing a loose cream sweater that slips off one shoulder and soft gray pants that look far too comfortable. Her hair is down. Her face is bare. She looks startled for about half a second before her expression shutters into caution.
Worse—she looks at home. Not entirely. There is still tension in her shoulders, still the wariness of someone who knows a beautiful place can still be a cage. But she fits the light.
“Francesca,” she says slowly.
“Birdie,” I answer.
The guard lingers just out of earshot. Smart.
Birdie’s gaze drops briefly to my stomach, then rises again,and I catch something flicker in her face. Guilt? Sympathy? Recognition? I don’t want any of them.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I came,” I say, “to see where my husband has been hiding you.”
Her mouth tightens immediately. “I’m not hiding.”
I look slowly around the penthouse again, letting the place say what I don’t have to. “Clearly.”
“This isn’t what you think,” she says.
Something hot and bitter rises in my throat.
I turn back to her. “And what do I think, exactly?”
“Francesca—”
“Don’t call me that like we’re friends.”
Her chin lifts. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“Good.”
The word comes out sharper than I intend, and for a moment all we do is look at each other. Her hand drifts to her stomach, protective and unconscious. And it hits me. She’s pregnant. My mother’s words dance through my mind.
