It has been a week since I started staying at Lorenzo's house.
A full week of him watching over me like a damn hawk.
Making sure I rest. Making sure I ate. Making sure I didn't take on more than I could handle.
At first, it annoyed the hell out of me.
I wasn't used to someone hovering, much less someone like him. Lorenzo Hudson—calculating, ruthless, always in control—had suddenly become the person tucking a blanket over me when I dozed off on the couch, making sure I took my painkillers, and glaring at me if I so much as tried to help with research for more than an hour without a break.
But somewhere in between the shared meals, the late nights going over leads, the quiet moments spent watching movies in his massive living room—I let my guard down.
And today, for the first time in a long time, I really let it down.
It started with something simple. A joke.
"Are you sure you're not secretly a robot?" I smirked, watching him struggle to cut vegetables for the pasta we were supposed to be making.
Lorenzo shot me a flat look. "I've held sniper rifles steadier than this knife, Reina. It's not a lack of skill—it's a lack of interest."
I let out a laugh, shaking my head. "Oh, so cooking is beneath you now?"
"Exactly." He dropped the knife with an exaggerated sigh and crossed his arms, watching me with that signature, unreadable expression of his. "Why would I waste my time cooking when I can pay someone to do it better?"
I rolled my eyes. "Because you suck at it, and that's a problem."
"It's not a problem if I refuse to acknowledge it," he countered, smirking slightly.
I couldn't stop the small burst of laughter that escaped me. A week ago, I wouldn't have allowed that—wouldn't have allowed this. But now? The weight on my shoulders felt just a little lighter, just for a moment.
Lorenzo noticed.
I could tell by the way his expression softened.
By the way he didn't push when I turned back to the stove, focusing on stirring the sauce instead of meeting his gaze. By the way he let me have this. A moment of normalcy. For the first time in years, I let myself be… me. Not the woman constantly fighting for control. Not the sister who had to hold everything together. Not the daughter who had to be better to earn love that never came. Just Reina.
And Lorenzo was still here.
He didn't judge me. He didn't
compare me to someone else.
He just let me be. And I wasn't used to that.
I wasn't used to not being compared to Sofia. Sofia—the perfect daughter. The beautiful one. The smart one. The one my parents adored, while I… just was. I knew they didn't mean to do it. I
knew, logically, that their love for her didn't mean they didn't love me.
But it had always been there, hadn't it?
That feeling.
That suffocating knowledge that no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I accomplished. I would never be her.
She had been the golden child.
And I had been the daughter who needed to prove she was worth loving.
After Sofia was taken, after she was gone, I tried.
I tried to be what they wanted.
I tried to be better.
But no matter how much I tried, no matter how much I distanced myself to keep them safe, it was never enough. Because I wasn't Sofia.
I would never be Sofia.
And deep down, I knew they resented that.
That realization had made me believe that love was conditional. That it had to be earned.
That I had to be more to deserve it.
But here—here in this house, with Lorenzo—
For the first time, I didn't feel like I had to earn anything.
I could be myself. Unapologetically.
Without fear of judgment. Without fear of criticism. Without fear of being not enough.
Astra and Illiana had been the only
ones who made me feel like that before.
And now—Lorenzo.
That thought shook me. Not because it was terrifying.
But because it wasn't.
Later that night, we sat on the couch watching a movie.
Well, I watched. Lorenzo sat next to me, one arm resting against the back of the couch, his other hand holding a glass of whiskey he had barely touched.
His presence was steady, grounding, and yet somehow it unravelled me.
I had never felt this before.
Not like this.
Not this slow, quiet realization that someone saw me—really saw me—and didn't expect me to change.
I swallowed hard, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.
His focus was on the screen, but I knew him well enough by now to recognize when his thoughts were elsewhere.
"You're not watching," I murmured.
His gaze flicked to mine, sharp and
knowing. "Neither are you."
I let out a soft breath, shaking my head. "I guess I'm a little distracted."
He hummed, studying me. "You had a good day today."
It wasn't a question.
It was an observation.
I nodded slowly. "Yeah… I did."
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was weighted.
Charged.
His fingers drummed against the couch, slow and deliberate. My heartbeat picked up, and I knew he could hear it.
A pulse of something more. Something dangerous. Something real.
My fingers curled against the blanket draped over my lap, gripping it just a little tighter.
Lorenzo exhaled softly, then shifted his gaze back to the screen.
And just like that, the moment passed.
But the feeling it left behind?
That stayed.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't scared of it.
I welcomed it.
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