Mila was done with the bedroom.
She'd spent three days in that bed—sleeping, staring at the ceiling, letting Sandro check her pupils and ask her the same questions about dizziness and nausea. Three days of Dante sitting in that chair beside her, his hand wrapped around hers like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.
She understood it. She even appreciated it, in a way that felt complicated and layered and not entirely comfortable.
But she was done.
Her body was fine. The bruises were fading to yellow-green at the edges. The headache was gone. The exhaustion had lifted. She'd eaten. She'd slept. She'd recovered.
And now she needed to move.
She stood in front of the mirror in Dante's bathroom, her hands braced against the marble counter, her eyes tracing her own reflection. She looked—normal. Tired, maybe. A little thinner. But not broken. Not fragile.
Not the girl who'd been dragged out of an office and locked in a concrete room.
