Morning light spilled through the curtains, painting the room in gold.
Alessia told herself she would forget what happened last night—that she would treat it as a mistake, nothing more. Yet the moment she heard his voice downstairs, every memory returned, bright and sharp.
She found herself drifting after him through the halls.
Everywhere Lorenzo went, she somehow ended up close behind—asking small questions about the estate, about the business, about anything that would make him talk.
Each answer from him came with that half-smile that unsettled her more than any threat ever could.
"You're following me again," he said at one point without even turning.
"I'm just… checking the security," she lied, clearing her throat.
He stopped, turned, and met her gaze. "Of course you are."
Her cheeks warmed instantly. She looked away, pretending to study the paintings on the wall.
All day it went on like that—her curiosity, his quiet amusement, and something unspoken weaving tighter between them.
When he reviewed some papers in the library, she lingered by the window.
When he gave orders to his guards, she stood close enough to hear his tone change when he spoke her name.
She hated how her heart reacted.
This wasn't supposed to happen; he was the enemy's son. Yet the more time she spent near him, the safer she felt, and that frightened her more than any gun ever could.
That night, alone in her room, she caught her reflection and whispered,
"What are you doing, Alessia? You're supposed to hate him."
But deep inside, she already knew—hate was no longer what she felt.