CHAPTER 23
Celia sat alone in the dining room long after Alessandro had left. The food was still warm. The silence he left behind was not.
"Who cares if you lost your appetite, dickhead," Celia muttered under his breath, the words barely louder than the ticking of the clock on the wall. He would never say it to Alessandro's face, but saying it now made the tightness in his chest ease just a little.
He stared at his plate. Getting angry was one thing. Letting that anger stop him from eating was another.
He picked up his fork again and continued eating, slower than before. Each bite felt stubborn, almost deliberate. By the time he finished, the irritation hadn't disappeared, but it had settled into something quieter and heavier.
He set the utensils down and leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the dark windows.
Tomorrow was the gala.
