I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing neon lights, a gaping void in my chest.

“We’re here.” Vincent parked the car and walked around to open my door.

Why was it always like this? He didn’t love me, but he slept with me, and he was still so damn considerate.

A lump formed in my throat.

I got out of the car and followed him, dragging my suitcase behind me.

I knew this house all too well. Every corner held a memory of our bodies tangled together.

Vincent reached for my suitcase, about to take it to my usual bedroom.

“Don’t,” I said, heading straight for a guest room. “I’m only staying for twelve days. This is fine.”

Vincent stopped in his tracks. “You can stay as long as you want.”

I put my suitcase in the guest room and closed the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone. Twelve more days, and I would leave New York forever.

The next morning, I went downstairs. Vincent was already in the dining room. He saw me and gestured to the seat across from him.

I sat. A maid brought me milk and toast.

“Vincent,” I began.

He looked up, his gaze calm behind his glasses.

“Did you know Isabella is Maria’s daughter?”

“I found out yesterday,” he said, his face unreadable, showing no hint of guilt.

That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Usually, Vincent would open the door around this time, push me down without a word, and grip my waist while calling me Principessa.

But tonight, the hallway was silent.

Of course. His first love was back. Why would he be thinking of me?

The next day was Saturday. Vincent didn’t go to the compound.

At ten in the morning, he knocked on my door.

“Sophia, there’s a party tonight. You’re coming with me.”

I opened the door. Vincent was already dressed in a sharp black suit.

“What party?”