Chapter 13
Birdie
An entire week goes by where Lorenzo keeps me in his room.
At first, it feels like protection. Then it starts to feel like a gilded cage.
He finally stops insisting on helping me every time I need to go to the bathroom but only because I started crying. Not yelling, not arguing. Crying. Ugly, silent tears I couldn’t stop.
Did he flinch when I shouted at him to give me space? Not even a little. But the second the tears came, something inside him cracked wide open. He’d looked lost, like my crying was the one thing he couldn’t fight his way through. After that, he backed off. Sort of.
And now I’m bored.
So freaking bored.
There’s no TV in here, which feels criminal in a penthouse this massive. I’ve already memorized every vein in the marble wall and every tiny imperfection in the ceiling. My only lifeline is my phone, which is its own kind of torture.
Because the messages don’t stop.
When are you coming home?
Are you and Sienna okay?
Birdie, we miss you. You’ve been MIA for weeks.
Every buzz sends a fresh wave of dread rolling through me.
Sara’s latest one hits hardest.
Sara
I don’t know how we’re going to catch up in school.
I can’t seem to drag myself out of bed without Dave here. And I miss you and Sienna.
Are you even coming back this semester?
Hello?
It’s a fair point. I don’t have any idea either on how I’m going to catch up on my courses.
And I have no idea when or if I’ll return to Kansas City.
The last time I set foot on campus feels like another life—like it happened to someone else entirely.
A girl who still thought “home” meant a cheap apartment, a best friend, and a stack of overdue assignments.
I scroll until the words blur. Every photo, every name, every reminder of my old life feels like a knife twisting deeper.
Outside the window, Chicago’s skyline glitters in the distance. It’s beautiful, cold, and untouchable. And here I am, in Lorenzo Conti’s room, breathing air that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
I drop my phone onto the nightstand and sink back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
“God, I hate this,” I whisper into the quiet.
But the truth I can’t admit is that I don’t know if I hate him for keeping me here or myself for feeling safer than I should.
I’m deep in thought when the door swings open so hard it rattles the frame.
Francesca strides in like she owns the place—like she owns him—and the glare she fixes on me could peel paint.
“You’re certainly playing this up, aren’t you?” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Her hand makes a dismissive gesture toward the bed. “Why, you’ve practically moved into my room.”
Her room.
The claim makes me want to laugh. There’s nothing in this space that belongs to her. Not the dark wood furniture, not the faint scent of leather and smoke, not the quiet weight that seems to hum in the air. Everything here screams him.
But I bite my tongue.
“It wasn’t my choice,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“And yet here you are.”
The words land heavier than I expect, because she’s not wrong. I should’ve insisted harder about moving back to my own room days ago. I should’ve reminded Lorenzo that I’m not his responsibility. But every time I tried, he had a way of firmly shutting the conversation down.
I push the plush bedding back, bracing my palms on the mattress to stand.
“Oh, don’t get up now.” Her lips twist into a cruel smile. “He’ll think I said something to upset you.”
I don’t bother to point out that she did.
“When are you going to stop preying on his kind heart and return home?”
That does it.
“I know you may not believe me,” I say quietly, “but I want to go home. Mr. Conti has forbidden it though.”
“Forbade,” she corrects with a smug lift of her brow, then huffs a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “Let me handle him. If I were you, I’d start packing.”
She turns sharply and leaves, her perfume lingering in the air long after the door slams behind her.
For a long moment, I just stand there, heart pounding, staring at the empty doorway.
Then, slowly, I whisper, “You know what she’s right.”
I’ve been in this room too long. Sleeping in his bed, breathing his air, losing track of where I end and his rules begin.
I shove the bedding back, swing my legs over the edge, and stand.
My legs tremble a little, but I ignore it.
I’ve been walking laps around this room for days, testing my strength, waiting for a chance to feel human again.
Now’s that chance.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, the only piece of my old life that still feels like mine, and head for the door.
The hallway stretches before me, quiet and endless. The house is too still, the kind of still that listens.
I take a breath. One step. Then another.
The air feels different out here. It’s cooler, freer, and somehow dangerous in a way that makes my pulse quicken. Somewhere deep down, I know that if Lorenzo catches me, he’ll be furious. But right now, I don’t care.
Right now, I just need to remember what freedom feels like.
Sienna’s door is open when I pass it, and I stop without thinking. The room that used to hum with her energy feels hollow now, stripped of color and laughter. Boxes line the walls—neat, impersonal stacks that smell faintly of cardboard and finality.
It takes me a second to notice the labels on some of them.
Kansas City.
I step inside, my pulse thudding. One of the lids is open, and when I lift it, the air catches in my throat. It’s her quilt from our apartment folded neatly inside. The one she used to drag to the couch for movie nights. The one that still smells like vanilla shampoo and popcorn.
Why is he doing this?
My chest tightens as I back out of the room, the edges of the world blurring. By the time I reach the guest room, my hands are shaking.
There are boxes in here too, stacked neatly near the closet. Some open, some still sealed. I lift the top flap and freeze.
My laptop. My clothes. My life.
“I had your things packed up,” Lorenzo’s voice says behind me.
I jump, spinning around. He’s standing in the doorway and is impossible to read.
“The apartment needed too much work for you to stay there.”
I nod slowly. “I guess that makes sense in a way. But why is it here?”
He steps farther into the room, folding his hands behind his back.
“Why wouldn’t I bring it here?”
I take a step back, searching his face. “Because I don’t live here.”
The silence that follows stretches too long.
I swallow, forcing my voice steady. “Have you had any leads?”
He tilts his head. “Leads?”
“On why Sienna was killed.”
Something flickers across his expression—pain, anger, something colder beneath it—but it’s gone almost instantly. His jaw sets.
“I’ve been busy taking care of you, Miss Miller.”
The formality cuts sharper than any curse. Miss Miller.
I meet his eyes, the old ache twisting into something bitter. “It’s a good thing I’m quite recovered, Mr. Conti.”
His tone matches mine when he replies. “Then I’ll do my best to get you out of here as soon as possible.”
“Perfect,” I say tightly. “Until then, what do you suggest I do? Knit?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m going through Sienna’s things to donate. See if there’s anything you’d like to keep for yourself.”
Her name is a knife to the ribs. I can’t breathe.
The tears hit before I can stop them. I turn my back, pressing a trembling hand to my mouth.
“Elizabeth…”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, waving him off though my voice breaks. “I’ll go through her things. Just—please. Leave me alone.”
He hesitates, and I can feel the weight of his stare before the sound of his footsteps fades down the hall. Only when I’m sure he’s gone do I sink to my knees. I miss her so much, but all I have is her blanket, memories, and the hollow ache of being left behind.
I make a point of avoiding Lorenzo as I go through Sienna’s things. It feels easier that way. Simpler.
Every day, I shut myself in her old room and sort in silence.
The quilt goes into the “keep” pile. So do the framed photos from our apartment.
Photos of Sienna with her wild hair and reckless smile, me beside her looking unsure but happy.
Everything else I tape up neatly, labeling the boxes for charity in my careful handwriting.
By the end of the week, the room is bare. Just walls and dust motes and the faintest trace of her perfume that no amount of cleaning can erase.
And me standing in the middle of it, feeling more lost than I did the night everything fell apart.
I finally make my way downstairs, needing the distraction of another human voice. The penthouse feels cavernous, all marble and silence and expensive emptiness.
Rosa is in the kitchen, humming softly as she polishes a glass. She looks up when she sees me, her kind eyes instantly softening.
“How are you, dear?”
“Good. Is Mr. Conti around?”
“Mr. Conti is out of town,” she says. “I believe he went to Kansas City.”
My pulse jumps, a sharp, involuntary rush.
Kansas City.
Maybe he’s following a lead. Maybe he’s finally doing what I’ve been begging him to. Finding out who did this. Maybe this will all finally be over.
I nod, trying to sound casual. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
“A few days, perhaps. He left very early.” She hesitates, glancing at me with something like sympathy. “He said you are to have free roam of the penthouse but you are not to leave.”
A humorless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Of course he doesn’t want me to leave.”
Rosa’s eyes flicker, but she wisely doesn’t say anything.
I move to the window, pressing a hand against the cold glass. The city stretches out below. So close I can almost taste it, and yet completely unreachable.
“Free roam,” I mutter under my breath. “How generous.”
The reflection in the glass looks back at me: pale, thinner than I remember, with eyes that have seen too much.
Sienna would have told me to run.
But there’s nowhere left to go.