I looked back at Bianca, her expression now unreadable. "I hope you get your answers."
I nodded, then instantly regretted asking that kind of question. Because deep down—I already knew.
I knew how it felt to be left behind. To search for answers that never came. To hold out your hands and find no one reaching back.
Anyway... let's forget that.
I continued lazily stirring the last bits of soup I had been forced to eat—on Salvo's orders, of course. Something about "nutrition" and "you're too skinny to survive another bed encounter."
Trauma. It came in so many beautiful, ridiculous flavors.
I sighed, resting my cheek on my fist as I absently poked a soggy carrot. Then my phone buzzed against the table.
Unknown Number.
I frowned.
Spam? A telemarketer? Riccardo again, using some weird burner line? I hovered over the decline button for a second.
And then, something—intuition, ffate, orpoor judgment—made me tap "Accept."
