Sofia's POV
Aunt Lyra had just stepped off the porch when she stopped short, one foot still hovering over the step. Her sharp gaze flicked from my face to the two people beside me, taking everything in within seconds. I knew that look too well—it meant she was about to speak, and she would not be gentle about it. I cut in before she could open her mouth.
“Mom sent these over,” I said easily, motioning toward the crates stacked behind us. “Some of what’s inside won’t keep long. You might want to sort through them today.”
I made a point of not looking at Lorenzo—my almost, my maybe, my never-quite. Over the past weeks, he’d made it painfully clear where his attention lay. Still, he surprised me by speaking up, his tone even and controlled, like someone careful not to step on a landmine.
“Don’t misunderstand, Sofia,” he said. “Francesca’s old place was in a bad district. Not somewhere I’d let anyone connected to me stay alone. I helped her relocate. I didn’t realize it was this close to your aunt’s house.” His eyes drifted to the boxes. “Why so much stuff?”
I turned to the driver and told him to bring everything straight into the kitchen. Only then did I answer, my voice flat.
“You don’t need to justify anything to me, Lorenzo. This was my mother’s decision. We’re not sure when we’ll be back, so she sent more than usual.”
The instant I spoke with that much detachment, I saw the tension ease from his shoulders. That small reaction sparked something sharp and unpleasant in my chest.
“Alright,” he said casually. “North Ridge isn’t far. If you need anything, just reach out.”
As if we were still close enough for that kind of familiarity.
What he didn’t know—and what I had no intention of correcting—was that I wasn’t here for a visit. I wasn’t leaving.
Aunt Lyra, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally spoke.
“Lorenzo,” she said carefully, “you and Sofia go back to childhood. Is this really how things stand between you now? It would be a shame to let years of history rot away because no one wants to speak honestly.”
Before he could answer, I shook my head slightly.
“There’s no confusion, Aunt Lyra,” I said. “Lorenzo has never hesitated when something truly mattered to him. If he hasn’t chosen by now, then the answer’s already clear.”
Francesca shifted at his side, her face pale, exhaustion written into every movement. Lorenzo noticed instantly. His focus snapped to her as if nothing else existed.
“You’re not feeling well,” he murmured.
Then, to the driver, “Hold off for a bit. We’ll go up first.”
I stepped aside without comment as he guided her toward the elevator. For a brief moment, Lorenzo paused and looked at me, as though waiting for something—anger, hurt, a plea. I gave him nothing. After a second, he turned away and ushered Francesca inside.
As the doors slid shut, the reflective surface caught them together—her expression soft with gratitude, his posture instinctively shielding her. The image dragged up a memory I hadn’t thought of in years: Lorenzo carrying my suitcase into his penthouse, grinning as he joked that I might as well start calling it our home, that I was already halfway to being his wife.
Aunt Lyra released a slow breath. “Are you truly okay with this, Sofia?”
I gave her a small, contained smile.
“It doesn’t matter if I am,” I said. “If that’s where his loyalty rests, then I’ll accept it.”
Once the last box was delivered, I left before my composure cracked. I waited outside for the car, but Lorenzo and Francesca still hadn’t come down. Out of courtesy—for what we used to be—I sent him a short message.
Are you coming back?
The response came almost immediately, but not in text form. A voice message.
When I pressed play, Francesca’s voice filled the air, gentle and carefully sweet.
“Sofia, Lorenzo’s helping me fix some wiring problems here. The apartment’s been empty for a while, so there’s a lot to sort out. You should head off first—no need to wait.”
I stared at the screen for several seconds before closing it. The familiar ache surfaced in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, but I forced it down before it could grow teeth.
As I slid into the backseat, another message came through.
“I hope you don’t get the wrong idea,” she added softly. “Lorenzo’s just helping because he feels responsible. Being alone in a new city can be… overwhelming.”
The meaning was unmistakable. She leaned on him. And he never refused her.
My phone rang again almost immediately. Lorenzo’s name lit up the screen. I answered, and his irritation spilled out at once.
“Why were you so cold earlier?” he demanded. “Francesca works under me. Her safety falls under my responsibility. Her living situation is temporary until everything’s finalized. You understand why I’d help her, don’t you?”
A quiet, bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
“Since when do you go this far for your staff?” I asked. “At the last family gathering, you left early, said you weren’t feeling well. I didn’t question it. Now you’re reorganizing your life for her?”
Soft sobbing filtered through the line.
Francesca spoke next, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere.
“Lorenzo… maybe I should leave. I don’t want to come between you and Sofia.”
His reply was immediate, edged with authority.
“That’s not happening. Stay where you are.”
The way he said it—firm, protective—hit harder than I expected. He hadn’t spoken to me like that in years.
I drew in a slow breath, forcing my emotions back into their cage.
“You’re right,” I said evenly. “That was on me. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve already left. Don’t bother coming back for me.”
I ended the call before he could respond.
And this time, I didn’t turn around.
