"Not all cages are built of iron. Some glimmer with glass."
The storm followed them out of Lausanne like a shadow that refused to lift. Rain blurred the glass, each droplet crawling down the window like thin threads of silver. The car hummed against the slick road, steady and unhurried, as though the storm was nothing more than background noise.
Élise pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, watching her city dissolve into streaks of orange and white lights, swallowed by fog. She had lived her whole life in that place-its crooked alleys, its darkened rooftops, its constant hum of secrets whispered behind locked doors. And yet, as it fell away behind her, she felt no pang of loss. Only a hollow ache, like a missing tooth she'd grown used to probing with her tongue.
Her small bag rested on her lap, clutched tightly with both hands, as though it contained her entire existence. It didn't, not really-only a threadbare sweater, a book of poetry she had hidden for years, and a rosary with one missing bead. But she held it as though someone might pry it from her fingers.
The leather seat opposite her creaked softly as Lorenzo shifted. He hadn't spoken since they left. His silence was not careless but deliberate, like a weapon placed on the table between them. It pressed on her chest as heavily as the damp air.
Beside him sat Matteo, driving with the precision of someone born to serve in silence. The man's jaw was cut like stone, his hands firm on the wheel, his posture straight despite the long road ahead.
Élise dared a glance at Lorenzo. Even in the dim glow of passing streetlamps, his presence seemed to dominate the space. Blue eyes-so dark they might have been mistaken for black in weaker light-stared ahead, unfaltering. His dark brown hair was slightly damp from the rain, strands clinging to his temple, yet he looked unaffected.
She looked away quickly, her heart thudding as if she had been caught.
The silence gnawed at her until it became unbearable. Her stomach ached, a hollow twisting, reminding her of the stale bread she had refused that morning. Hunger was nothing new. She had learned long ago to ignore it, to swallow it like another kind of punishment.
And then, outside the blur of rain, she saw it: a diner sign glowing faintly, its neon letters buzzing through the storm. Warm light spilled from its windows. For a moment, her throat tightened. She didn't realize how fixed her eyes had become until the sign disappeared behind them.
"Stop here," Lorenzo said suddenly.
Matteo slowed the car without question, pulling into the gravel lot.
Élise's breath caught. She looked at Lorenzo, but his gaze was already on her, steady, unreadable.
"Out," he said simply.
For an instant, fear flared. Out? Here? Was this where he discarded her?
But Matteo was already opening the diner door, letting in a waft of warmth and the smell of frying butter. Lorenzo rose, his coat falling around him in fluid motion. Élise hesitated, her body taut, before following.
The diner was almost empty. A truck driver hunched over a bowl of soup in the corner, his cap pulled low. The waitress behind the counter looked up, chewing her gum slower, eyes flicking to Lorenzo, then lingering on Élise with mild curiosity.
The warm air wrapped around her like a blanket, too sudden after the cold outside. It carried the scent of coffee, frying oil, and sugar-things that made her stomach ache even more with need.
Lorenzo chose a booth in the far corner, where the shadows reached, his back to the wall. Élise hovered by the door until Matteo's subtle nod directed her to sit across from him. She slid onto the cracked red vinyl seat, her bag still on her lap.
The waitress approached, pad in hand. "What can I get you?" she asked, her voice almost cautious.
"Two coffees," Lorenzo said, his voice calm, controlled. Then, after the smallest pause, his eyes shifted to Élise, flickering over her face before turning back. "And food. Something warm."
The waitress scribbled, her eyes darting between them before moving away.
The silence stretched again. Élise stared at the scratched table surface, tracing the lines with her eyes, afraid to speak.
"Why here?" she finally whispered, her voice so faint it almost vanished beneath the hum of the diner's lights.
"You haven't eaten," Lorenzo replied.
Her head jerked up, violet eyes wide.
"How do you-"
"You looked at the diner sign like it was salvation," he said smoothly. "I don't need to ask."
Her cheeks burned. She turned back to the table, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
The waitress returned, setting down steaming mugs of coffee. A moment later came plates-stew, bread, and eggs, the portions generous. The smell was overwhelming.
Élise's hands trembled as she reached for the spoon, then hesitated.
"Eat," Lorenzo said. His tone carried no room for refusal, yet it wasn't harsh.
Her fingers curled around the spoon, lifting it slowly. The first taste nearly undid her-it was warm, rich, heavier than anything she'd had in months. She blinked quickly, afraid her eyes might betray her.
But someone else noticed.
The truck driver across the room leaned back, his gaze shifting toward them. He muttered something, his voice thick with alcohol, a smirk twisting his lips.
"Pretty thing you've got there," he said loudly enough for them to hear.
Élise froze, her spoon clinking softly against the bowl. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Matteo shifted slightly, but Lorenzo didn't move. His eyes remained on her, calm, steady, as if nothing had been said.
The trucker chuckled, slurping his soup obnoxiously. "Don't see girls like her often. White hair, eyes like that. Rare."
Élise's breath quickened. She kept her gaze on the table, willing herself to disappear.
Only then did Lorenzo lift his coffee cup, his movements unhurried. He took a slow sip, then set it down with quiet precision.
"Matteo," he said, his voice low, almost gentle.
The man rose without hesitation. In two strides, he was at the trucker's table. A hand landed firmly on the man's shoulder. The smirk faltered. Matteo leaned down, whispering something that Élise couldn't hear. Whatever it was, the trucker paled, eyes darting to Lorenzo before he swallowed hard and returned to his soup, silent.
Matteo came back, calm as though nothing had happened.
Élise's hand shook around her spoon. She forced another bite, her throat tight.
"Why me?" she whispered suddenly.
The question slipped out before she could catch it, trembling on her lips.
Lorenzo's gaze met hers across the table, blue eyes steady, unreadable. He let the silence stretch, the sound of rain filling it.
Finally, he said, "Because you were the only thing in that house worth taking."
Her breath caught. The words were sharp, cutting, but beneath them lingered something she couldn't name.
He leaned back, his shadow stretching across the booth, and for a moment she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes-something almost human, quickly shuttered away.
The rain pounded harder outside, like fists against the glass.
And Élise ate, each bite a fragile act of survival, while across from her, Lorenzo Moretti watched with the quiet intensity of a man who never did anything without reason.