Page 57 of Conall's Reign

My phone buzzed.

Francesca: Could you come up to the penthouse? I need to discuss something important. Or I can come to you if you’re in the building.

Francesca: Sorry to bother you.

Me: I’m on my way.

Pushing back from the desk, my heart in my throat, I headed toward the penthouse. She was fine, I repeated to myself, but I couldn’t shake her message from my mind. She said it was important. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was going to ask for a divorce. I wouldn’t let her go. She had to know that. I loved her. She was mine.

?

The elevator doorsslid open to the penthouse, and I stepped inside. The soft sound of my shoes against the wooden floors echoed faintly in the stillness, amplifying the tension already coiling in my chest. Even the scent of burning candles couldn’t chase away the unease crawling beneath my skin.

Crossing the threshold into the spacious living room, I immediately spotted her. Francesca sat on the couch, her posture slumped and defeated. Theodosia leaned over, whispering to her, one hand resting gently on Francesca’s shoulder in what I could only interpret as a silent gesture of reassurance. Their heads turned in unison when I entered, yet Francesca’s expression—pale, her lips pressed into a tight line—halted me in my tracks. My chest constricted, the worst scenarios cycling through my mind like a reel I couldn’t stop.

I scanned her, my eyes moving in a practiced pattern—head to toe, left to right, top to bottom. No bruises. No cuts. Her sweater was intact, with no rips or bloodstains. Relief eased the tightness in my ribs, but it wasn’t enough to quell the unease slithering under my skin.

However, the tension radiating from her, along with the way her eyes flickered to mine and then away, as if she couldn’t bear to hold my gaze for too long, set my nerves on edge.

“Francesca?” Her name escaped my lips, soft and hesitant, as if speaking it too loudly could break the delicate thread that kept her intact. She nodded too quickly and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice unconvincing and cracking slightly on the last word. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, twisting and pulling at the fabric as if it could anchor her in place.

Theodosia’s sharp gaze flicked to mine, assessing. She popped a bubble of gum, the sharp snap echoing in the silence. The scent of artificial strawberry curled in the air, mingling with the candles. Another clash. Another thing out of place.

I closed the distance between us with careful, measured steps. Every instinct screamed at me to protect her and demand answers, but I swallowed my impatience, forcing myself to approach gently. “You’re back,” I said, my voice soft and steady. “How was your coffee date with Cora?” I chose to focus on the inconsequential topic of her coffee date rather than delving straight into the incident with Cosimo.

Her face softened slightly, and the tension in her features eased for a brief moment. “She’s amazing,” Francesca said, her voice a bit brighter. “You were right. She and I will get along great. Maybe we can invite her and Maxim over for dinner.”

That eased something in me. She was thinking about the future. Planning. That was good. Stable. Predictable. Although double dating wasn’t something I had ever considered before. Next up would be game nights.

“Sure. Double dating. I never thought that would be in my future, but I like it,” I teased, lowering myself onto the couch beside her. My hand found hers, our fingers intertwining. Her skin felt too cold, her grip too light. The faint tremor in her fingers sent another ripple of unease down my spine. “Are you sure you’re alright?” I asked again, my mind already anticipating the need to repeat it.

She nodded once more, but the motion was as unconvincing as before. “I’m fine,” she insisted, though her voice wavered again. Her eyes darted to Theo, who gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, her silent support steadfast.

I leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against her lips—a test, a reassurance. Her breath hitched, and when I pulled back, the warmth in her gaze settled something in me.

I held her hand tightly, reluctant to let go. I couldn’t be sure if it was for her reassurance or my own. Theodosia settled into the nearby armchair and scrolled casually through her phone, her sharp gaze flicking toward us now and then. Today, she dressed as a blend of a gothic heroine and a Three Musketeer, wearing a flowing top with sleeves that draped over her hands, paired with tight brown leather pants. If she drew a sword, I wouldn’t be surprised.

As Francesca and I shifted, the leather creaked softly beneath us. I noticed her fingers trembling slightly as she twisted the hem of her sweater. My knee bounced once, a tell I couldn’t quite suppress, which I stilled immediately.

“What did you and Cora discuss?” I asked, keeping my tone light. If she needed time to gather her thoughts, I would offer it.

“Nothing too deep,” Francesca said, her voice growing quieter. “Just her love of zombies, photography, and family — the usual things.”

I nodded, a faint smile pulling at my lips. “She could use a friend.”

Francesca’s hand tightened slightly around mine, and I noticed hesitation in her eyes. Whatever was troubling her, it wasn’t about Cora. I had already known that. My sister radiated sunshine. While it wasn’t untrue that she could use a friend, that definitely wasn’t the issue on Francesca’s mind.

“Conall,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s something you need to know.”

I straightened, my focus sharpening. Her fingers tightened around mine, now trembling. “Go on,” I encouraged softly.

She glanced at Theodosia, who gave the slightest nod before putting her phone down to focus on us. Francesca swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she continued. “It’s about Cosimo. And Fausto.”

My breath hitched, and my chest tightened as her words settled over me. My jaw clenched, and I forced myself to remain still, though every nerve screamed for answers. “What about them?” My voice was steady, but the tension lacing through it was unmistakable. My gut churned with anxiety. “Whatever it is, Francesca, you can trust me.”

She nodded and gulped before continuing, “Cosimo…” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to our intertwined hands. “His interest in me—he has been asking questions and pressing me for information for years.”

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