Page 71 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

“Miss Isabella.” His voice is formal, businesslike. “You are to return to your apartment immediately.”

The words hit me like a slap.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Mr. Castellano has arranged for your departure. The car is waiting.”

My heart stutters, a slow, painful realization curling in my gut. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a misunderstanding.

This is deliberate.

I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the way my hands tremble. “I need to speak to Dominic.”

“He is not home.”

I shake my head, my pulse pounding. “Then I’ll wait until he gets back.”

The man’s gaze hardens. “I have orders to ensure you leave the premises. You are not permitted to remain.”

The words settle over me, chilling and final. I open my mouth, searching for an argument. But what’s the point? Dominic isn’t here. And even if he were, he clearly doesn’t want me to be.

I swallow the lump in my throat, my voice quieter now. “Why?”

The man doesn’t answer. He simply gestures toward my room. “You should pack.”

I stand there in a dilemma for one breath. Then another.

And then I turn, closing the door behind me before my composure breaks.

I move through my room in a daze, every motion mechanical, every breath shallow and uneven. My hands tremble as I yank open drawers, pulling out clothes and shoving them into my bag with no real care for what I’m packing. Fabrics spill over the edges, wrinkled and haphazard, mirroring the chaos inside me. My heart is a dull roar in my ears, drowning out the distant hush of the house beyond my closed door.

A deep, gnawing ache squeezes in my stomach, twisting cruelly as I realize how much of him is still here—how much of him has wrapped itself around me, making it impossible to leave without feeling like I’m leaving something more than just this room.

My fingers tighten around a shirt.

What changed?

Had I overstepped? Had I gotten too close? Had I let myself believe that I was anything more than a temporary distraction? That the sex meant something?

A bitter laugh threatens to escape, but I swallow it down, my throat thick. Stupid, stupid girl.

I force myself to keep moving, grabbing whatever I can, stuffing it into the bag with jerky, desperate movements. My art supplies sit untouched in the corner, brushes still in the jar of water, the painting I had started for him—a second version of the rose on the river—half-finished on the easel. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. I can’t take it with me, but I also can’t bear to leave it behind.

I rip the canvas off the stand, rolling it up and shoving it into the bag before I can second-guess myself. The motion knocks over the cup of water, sending paint-streaked liquid spilling across the floor, seeping into the cracks between the wooden planks.

Perfect.

The mess mirrors the way I feel inside—scattered, raw, ruined.

I sink onto the edge of the bed for just a moment, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. The sheets are still tangled, the pillows indented where Dominic had been. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s still here. That this is just another morning after, that he’ll walk in, smirking, and pull me back into bed. That this isn’t goodbye.

But reality crashes in, sharp and brutal.

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply.

I refuse to cry. Not for him. Not for a man who doesn’t have the decency to tell me himself.

I rip the sweater off, replacing it with a clean shirt, a fabric that doesn’t smell like him. But it’s too late—his scent clings to my skin, woven into my hair, into the fabric of my being.

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