The moonlight shimmered against the dark glass of the terrace window. Alessia stood silently, her arms folded tight across her chest as the wind toyed with her hair. She had been standing there for nearly an hour now—waiting, thinking, breaking.
The cold wrapped around her like a cruel whisper.
She hadn't wanted to cry.
But the truth had burned its way into her—Bianca's announcement, the smugness in her voice, the timing of it all. The seed of doubt now bloomed with cruel thorns inside Alessia's chest.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
"Alessia," Luca Morano's voice came soft, almost hesitant. She didn't turn.
He stepped forward, closing the door behind him, his footsteps slow on the polished tiles. "You've been out here for too long. It's cold."
Her fingers clenched the fabric of her dress. "Cold is all I feel lately, Luca."
His breath caught.
"Alessia, don't do this," he said, inching closer. "Not when you know the truth in my eyes."
