Page 72 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Coward.

I zip up the bag with more force than necessary and sling it over my shoulder, the weight pressing down on me, anchoring me in a reality I don’t want to face.

My fingers hover over the door handle for a fraction of a second before I force myself to push it open.

I don’t look back.

I can’t.

The drive to my apartment is tormenting.

The man who escorted me sits in the front, silent and unwelcoming. Dominic’s rejection settles heavy in my chest, but I keep my back straight.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s broken me.

I stare out the window as the Castellano estate disappears behind me, swallowed by the winding roads and towering trees. My reflection stares back at me in the glass—hollow-eyed, empty.

I fell harder than I wanted to.

And now I’m paying for it.

I try to convince myself this is for the best. That I don’t belong in his world. That I was always meant to leave.

But the words feel hollow, even in my own mind.

When we finally pull up in front of my apartment building, I force myself to move. The car ride had been agonizing. Now, as I step out, the early evening air clings to my skin, thick and damp, pressing against me like a warning. The streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, wavering shadows along the cracked sidewalk.

The sight of the familiar building doesn’t bring any comfort.

The dimly lit lobby greets me with the faint scent of old wood and stale coffee, a scent that has always been there, a scent I used to find oddly comforting. But now, it turns my stomach. My steps echo as I cross the worn tile, my boots clicking against the floor, but the stillness is too deep, too unnatural.

I stop at the entrance to my apartment, my fingers tightening around my keys. There’s no reason for my heart to be hammering like this, for my skin to prickle with unease. Everything looks the same—the chipped paint on the doorframe, the scuff marks near the handle, the small dent where I’d once kicked the door in frustration.

And yet—

Something is off.

The feeling settles deep in my bones, coiling there like a snake waiting to strike. I force myself to breathe, telling myself I’m imagining things, that my paranoia is a lingering effect of the past twenty-four hours. That I’m still shaken from being tossed out of Castellano’s world like I was nothing.

But no.

I press my key into the lock, turning it slowly, listening for anything—any sign that something isn’t right. The soft click of the bolt sliding back is too loud in the quiet, and when I push the door open, I freeze.

The apartment looks untouched.

The small couch is in its usual spot, my art supplies scattered across the desk where I’d left them, the blanket on the armrest folded exactly the way I remember. There are no broken locks, no shattered glass, no overturned furniture.

But it doesn’t feel like home.

The air is too thick. Stagnant. Like the room has been holding its breath.

Like someone has been here.

A sharp jolt of fear races through me.

I step inside, my bag heavy on my shoulder, my chest even heavier. My eyes sweep over everything again, searching for what my instincts are screaming at me to find.

Nothing is out of place.

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