Chapter 16
Birdie
I wake up alone.
For a long moment, I just stare at the empty space beside me, the chair the only proof that Lorenzo had been there at all. The room feels too big without him in it. And part of me is disappointed. The other part knows it’s for the best.
We still haven’t talked about the party.
Or about the kiss. He has every right to be furious with me.
Not that his silence doesn’t sting worse than if he’d yelled.
Because at least then I’d know where I stood.
I know I should be mad at him, too, for locking me away in this golden cage but I’m not.
I’m mad at myself. For trusting Rick. For thinking I could have one night of normal.
For thinking I could breathe without it costing something.
The new guards barely look at me. They’re older, harder, and they made it perfectly clear how they feel about me yesterday morning when I tried to say hello. Two of them literally turned their backs. The message was clear enough. I’m a problem they’ve been ordered to tolerate, nothing more.
I slip from the bed, shower, and dress in a soft gray sweater and jeans. Downstairs, Rosa greets me with her usual warmth.
“Good morning, Ms. Miller.”
“Birdie,” I correct automatically, though we both know it’s useless.
Her smile falters. “Of course. Would you like some breakfast?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Is Mr. Conti still here?”
“No, ma’am. He left early this morning. He’s spending the day with Ms. Marino before their event.”
My heart skips. “Event?”
“They’re attending a charity gala downtown. It’s supposed to be quite the occasion.”
I nod, pretending that the words don’t twist like a knife. Charity gala. With Francesca.
I picture her on his arm, tall and elegant in some glittering dress, the cameras flashing. Him at her side, all dark suit and control. Everything about it feels right. Everything except how much I hate the thought of it.
“He did leave something for you,” Rosa adds, gesturing toward the foyer. “On the table.”
Curiosity and dread fight for dominance as I cross the marble floor. On the small table near the elevator sits a cream-colored envelope with my name written across it in Lorenzo’s careful, slanted handwriting.
I hesitate before opening it.
Inside is a sleek black card and a single folded note. The scent of his cologne clings faintly to the paper.
Miss Miller,
Use this card to buy whatever you may need to feel at home.
That’s all it says. No greeting. No apology. No warmth. Not even his freaking name. Just the same cold, controlled distance he gives everyone else.
I stare at the words until they blur, the paper trembling in my hand. Does he really think this is what I want? A credit card? A gesture that costs him nothing?
My chest tightens. I press the note flat against the table, my reflection staring back at me in the glossy surface.
Fine.
If he wants me to feel at home, I’ll show him exactly what that means.
I go back to my room and grab my cellphone. A quick internet search shows a nearby store that can deliver a laptop within the hour.
“Let’s see how at home you really want me to be,” I murmur as I hit ‘buy’.
Four hours later, my room looks like a high-end boutique exploded.
There’s a brand-new laptop still gleaming in its box, shopping bags from luxury stores piled high, tissue paper spilling like confetti. The air smells faintly of new leather and Chanel No. 5—the kind of scent that clings to people who’ve never had to check a price tag in their lives.
A thousand dollars for a lipstick. A designer eyeshadow palette I almost didn’t buy.
Almost.
Because somewhere between the guilt and the hurt, I remembered something Sienna once said.
It was our sophomore year, right after her father canceled yet another weekend visit because of “business.” She’d been furious that day, pacing our dorm in her fuzzy socks, her eyes wild.
“He thinks throwing money at me will fix things,” she’d said, snatching up the credit card he’d sent with her for emergencies. Then she’d smiled that dangerous smile. “So I’ll show him.”
And she did. Shoes. Dresses. A brand-new phone she didn’t even need. She turned every dollar into proof that he couldn’t buy her love, even as she spent it.
I remember watching her and thinking she was reckless.
Now, I understand her perfectly.
So when the guilt creeps in, I shove it down and pull the next bag closer. I set up the laptop. I line the make-up on the vanity. I slide the jewelry box open just to admire the shimmer.
If this is how Lorenzo wants to make me feel at home, then fine.
I’ll turn his money into armor.
And when I catch my reflection in the mirror—a flash of red lipstick, my hair shining under the soft light—I whisper the words like a promise.
“What would Sienna do?”
She’d spend every cent on that card, maxing it out, smile while she did it, and make him wonder if he ever had control at all.
Around seven in the evening I get an idea.
I use my brand new laptop and open the website to an airline.
I mean, Lorenzo did say he wanted me to feel at home.
And my home isn’t here. It’s in Kansas City.
I’m about to select my date of travel when I realize that tonight is Christmas Eve.
The thought has me stilling. That means it’s been three weeks since this all began.
Since Sienna and I decided to throw a party that changed everything.
I stare at the screen. Lorenzo said my apartment won’t be ready, which means I won’t have anywhere to go when I do get to Kansas City.
And since it’s Christmas week there’s a good chance my friends will be out of town.
My eyes are full of tears as I hit ‘purchase’. I’ll figure it out when I get there.
But my purchase doesn’t go through. So I try again. When that doesn’t work, I try another airline.
I’m starting to get angry when my phone buzzes.
My stomach drops as soon as I see his name light up the screen.
L. Conti
Of course.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
You can try to buy as many plane tickets as you want, but you’ll find none of them will go through.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I grip the phone tighter.
You canceled the card?!
I restricted it. For your safety.
And, it’s my card.
For my safety. The word makes me laugh, but it’s sharp and ugly, the kind that sounds a little too close to breaking.
You mean for your control.
This time, he doesn’t respond right away. I can almost feel him reading it, imagining his jaw tightening, the slow, measured inhale before he answers.
We’ll discuss this when I get home.
Home. He means his home.
I toss the phone onto the bed and press my palms to my eyes until the tears spill over anyway. I hate that he still has this kind of hold over me. I hate that some small part of me feels safer knowing he’s watching even when he’s the reason I’m trapped.
Outside, snow starts to fall against the glass, soft and soundless. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m alone in a penthouse that doesn’t feel like mine, surrounded by things I don’t want, bought with money that feels like chains.
I grab the black card off the nightstand and throw it across the room. It hits the far wall and lands in the corner, face up, catching the faint light from the city below.
“Feel at home,” I whisper bitterly. “Right.”
My phone buzzes again. My heart leaps even though I wish it wouldn’t.
Do not leave the penthouse.
I type and delete three different replies before settling on two words.
Merry Christmas.
No response.
Just silence and the unbearable knowledge that, somewhere across the city, Lorenzo Conti is thinking about me, too.
Then, because I apparently haven’t tortured myself enough tonight, I open social media. The first post that pops up stops me cold. It’s from one of those glossy Chicago society account. The kind that documents every champagne-fueled smile and glittering lie of the city’s elite. The caption reads:
“Power couple of the evening: Lorenzo Conti and fiancée Francesca Marino, arriving at the St. Regis Charity Gala.”
My heart stutters.
And then I see the photo.
Lorenzo looks devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, his jaw freshly shaved, his expression unreadable but commanding. Francesca clings to his arm like she was made for that role—her red gown draped over every perfect curve, diamonds flashing at her throat.
They look right together. Elegant. Untouchable.
My throat tightens as I swipe to the next image. He’s helping her with her coat, hand grazing her bare shoulder. In the next he’s whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that tilts her head just enough for the cameras to catch her smile.
And then I see it.
The flash of light near her hand catches my eye. I zoom in.
A ring.
Not just any ring. A massive, glittering diamond on her left hand, so bright it practically burns.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
The caption under the next photo confirms what the world already seems to know: “Rumor has it the engagement will be made official tonight during the gala’s closing toast.”
I set the phone down too quickly, like it’s scalding hot. But my pulse won’t slow down. The image plays over and over behind my eyelids. His hand on her waist, her perfect smile, and the ring glinting under the lights.
He’s marrying her. While I’m sitting here in his penthouse, pretending I matter.
A laugh slips out, shaky and sharp. “Of course.”
I grab the phone again, scroll back up, force myself to look at the photo one more time. He’s not smiling, but there’s something soft in his expression. Something that feels too close to tenderness.
And it hurts. God, it hurts in a way I didn’t think possible.
Him on the red carpet.
Her on his arm.
Me, trapped in the world they built, pretending I belong.
A sharp, humorless laugh slips from my lips. “Merry Christmas, Lorenzo,” I whisper to the empty room. Then, quieter, “You win.”
That’s when I grab the card off the floor and make one last purchase. If anything, it will help me take the edge off.