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My eyes land on the adjoining page, where she has stars drawn around a simple list titled, Things I Miss.

I don’t mean to read it, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the soft, loopy, almost childlike handwriting.

Taking a shower. My mother’s humming. Crayons. Lavender. Being seen without suspicion.

Finally, she sits at the edge of the bed and stares at the door.

The dwindling hope in her eyes flickers like the flame on a dying candle.

And when no one comes for her, she curls into herself.

Not broken. Just…folding.

She pulls the blanket tight around her, her chestnut hair like a tangled halo across the pillow. Guilt knots in my chest as I reach for the thin file in the cabinet.

No priors. No red flags.

She’s just a woman who teaches five-year-olds how to color inside the lines.

Hospital records indicate regular visits to an institution under her name. The patient is her mother, Elena Martinelli. Sophia almost never misses a week.

There are photos of her at the hospital, back at home, and during school events. In some of the pictures, her smile is radiant and happy.

This girl could’ve run from her name and the life it brings, but she kept it and lived as if she had nothing to prove.

While she was wrong for doing that, I respect the hell out of her for it.

Because now, even though she’s proof that not all monsters raise monsters, she’s caught in a web her father’s actions spun. My phone buzzes, and the screen lights up.

A photo from Izzy. She’s stretched across silk sheets, white lace barely covering anything. Red lipstick. Champagne glass tilted just so. Hair cascading over one bare shoulder. The practiced angle’s designed to seduce.

I should at least feel some desire. Once, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Now I feel nothing. My gaze drifts back to Sophia, who’s curled on her side with her hair in tangled waves and one hand stretched across the pillow like she’s reaching for something. No makeup, and sleep has left her face unguarded.

My chest tightens.

The phone buzzes again. A call this time.

I answer.

“Enzo.” Izzy’s smooth, intoxicating voice—always with that edge underneath—pours through the speaker. “You’re late. I’ve been waiting.” She shifts, and I hear her silk nightgown rustling. “Or are you still brooding in that dungeon of yours?”

I’d forgotten. She’d suggested to me last week that we have drinks tonight…and I’d said maybe. Now I’m in trouble for missing it.

“I’m not coming.”

For a second, I almost think the call has ended. I’m about to sigh in relief when her sharp voice breaks the silence. “Is it her?”

My jaw clenches. “You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

“You don’t love her.” She says it like she’s trying to convince herself.

“No.”

The word feels raw coming out of my throat. My heart skips, but I lock it down, telling myself the truth is what I want it to be.

“Good.” Her voice almost coaxes. “Then come over. I’ll make you forget whatever’s got you twisted up.”

“Izzy…”