ENZO
MY PALMS WERE slick with sweat as I gripped Tristan’s hand, leading him through the back door of the mansion. It was still dark outside—three, maybe four in the morning—and the air was sharp with that kind of silence that made every sound feel louder. We had to move fast, before Marcus came home.
“We could plan—”
“No.” I cut him off, my hand tightening around his. “We do it now.”
Tristan didn’t argue, but I felt the tension rolling off him. We both knew there wouldn’t be another chance. If Marcus found out we were leaving—if he found out why—it would be over.
The floor creaked softly beneath us as we slipped deeper into the hallway, our hearts hammering like a countdown.
Then—
Footsteps. A voice.
My mother’s. Followed by Eli’s soft, sleepy murmur.
“s**t,” I breathed, and yank
