The walk-in closet.
Almost against my will, I step inside.
My footsteps slow.
Half of the closet is unmistakably his.
The other half...
My chest tightens.
Cream cabinetry. Soft green accents. The same colors I’d chosen for my closet in my last house. Every shelf, every drawer, every display feels familiar, as though someone reached into my memories and rebuilt them here.
He thought of me.
He planned for me.
Long before I agreed to live under his roof.
The realization squeezes my heart until it aches.
Tears sting my eyes.
I squeeze them shut and draw in a shaky breath.
No.
I will not cry.
I will not let this room, these walls, or this man chip away at the armor I’ve spent years building.
I refuse to give in to Nico Pitucco.
No matter how much he makes this place feel like home.
He’s my enemy. And nothing more than a business transaction. You keep trying to convince yourself.
I walk to the back of the closet and notice a lavender sparkly evening gown.
I read the note.
Dinner in the dining room at six.
“Luke, loop the cameras for two minutes.”
“Got it. You’re a go.”
Nico’s in for a rude awakening.
Later that evening I saunter into the dining room that seats roughly thirty people. Kobi texted me today.
Kobi: I need to see you.
Me: I can’t.
Kobi: I won’t return to Italy until we talk in person.
Me: I’ll let you know when I can get away.
