She’s lying there, pale as hell, curled up on the sofa like a broken doll. Her chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, her body clearly still fighting that damn fever. The doctor said it’d take a few days to pass, but it’s been three already, and she still looks like she’s been drained of life. It twists something in my gut.

She doesn’t even flinch when I open the door, but I know she heard me. Her head doesn’t turn, but her whole body goes stiff, and I know she knows it’s me.

“Let me take care of you,” I say as I step inside, my voice steady. No hesitation. I shrug off my jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door like I always have. This place still feels like mine. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself into thinking I still have a right to be here.

I look at her—really look at her—and it hits me how fragile she looks. She’s lost weight. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes dulled by exhaustion and fever. She’s still so damn beautiful it hurts, but she doesn’t look like my firecracker anymore. This is my fault.

Three days. That’s how long it’s been since she cut me loose. Three days since she found out about the fiancée I never wanted, the one I never touched, never gave a second thought to. I tried to explain, to tell her it was a stupid alliance deal, meaningless in every way that mattered. But she didn’t care. She ended us with that same steel in her voice that made me fall for her in the first place.

And yet, here I am. I left Italy, left the business, left everything behind to be here. Because no matter what she says, no matter what she thinks, she’s still mine.

Even if she doesn’t want me anymore.

But I’m not just here to nurse her back to health. I need her to hear me, to understand. I’ll take care of her, sure. But I’m not leaving until I get back what’s mine.