Page 128 of Freed
Then he leaves. The apartment feels wrong the moment the door closes behind him.
The days drag.
They don’t pass so much as scrape by, one slow hour after another. Breakfast arrives. Lunch arrives. Dinner arrives. The guards rotate outside the door. The city glitters beyond the windows, unreachable and cold. I try reading but I can’t focus. I try television but every voice irritates me. I try walking laps around the penthouse until one of the guards gently reminds me the doctor said I’m supposed to be resting. So I rest. Or pretend to.
By the second night, I stop sleeping in my room.
I tell myself it’s because his room is darker. The blackout curtains actually block the city glow, and the mattress is firmer and better for my back. That lie lasts all of ten seconds.
The truth is worse.
I sleep in his bed because it smells like him.
Clean cologne and starch and something darker beneath it that clings to the sheets and pillows. It makes me feel less alone. The realization is so humiliating I almost march back to my own room on principle.
I don’t.
Instead, I curl onto his side of the bed and press my face into his pillow like a complete idiot.
“Pathetic,” I mutter to myself.
My hand drifts to my stomach.
The baby shifts, making me gasp. It’s been doing that since he left. A tiny, stubborn life. A constant reminder that nothing about this is simple anymore. Maybe it misses him as much as I do.
By the third night, I’ve developed a routine. I shower. I pace. I pretend not to listen for updates from the guards. Then I slip into Lorenzo’s room as if I’m borrowing something, not admitting a weakness.
It is on the fourth night, just after midnight, that I’m half-asleep in his bed when voices drift in from the hall. I sit up instantly, heart pounding.
One of the guards taps the door and says, “He’s back.”
Relief hits me so hard it’s almost nauseating which is how I know I’m already in far deeper than I want to admit.
A second later, footsteps sound outside the bedroom door.
The handle turns.
And Lorenzo walks in, looking exhausted, dangerous, and very much alive.
He stops when he sees me in his bed. One dark brow lifts. I sit up straighter and pull the blankets higher, suddenly aware of how this looks. Neither of us says anything for a second.
Then he closes the door behind him and says, very quietly, “Miss me, Birdie?”
I should laugh, roll my eyes, tell him I’m here because hismattress is better or because I hate my room or because I wanted to annoy him in absentia.
Instead, I say, “Don’t.”
His expression shifts. The teasing fades, replaced by something more focused. He takes a step closer. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make fun of me for this.”
His gaze moves over me, then the bed, then back to my face. “I wasn’t.”
That surprises me enough that I look at him properly.
He loosens his tie with one hand, eyes never leaving mine. “I was trying to decide whether to be offended you invaded my room without permission.”
“Your room smelled better.”
