“No,” he said quietly. “You’re going to list it as exactly what it is.”
But the window wasn't what made Liam freeze. capri cavanni room
The room still smelled like her.
Liam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Theatrical. That was like calling the Sistine Chapel a nicely decorated shed. “No,” he said quietly
Mrs. Halder cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Cole? Shall we list it as a ‘primary suite with panoramic views’?” Liam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling
They write to me of love, she had scrawled. They write of a woman they invented. A goddess. A witch. A heartbreaker. But no one ever asked about the room. No one ever asked what I saw when I looked out at the sea. So I will tell you now, whoever finds this: I was not lonely. I was free. Every letter was a cage they tried to build around me, and I refused to step inside. I kept them not as trophies, but as a reminder that to be truly seen is the rarest gift of all. And no one—not one of them—ever truly saw me. They saw Capri Cavanni. But in this room, I was just myself. And that was enough.
That was the first thing Liam noticed when the realtor finally slid the antique brass key into the lock and pushed open the heavy oak door. It wasn't perfume, exactly—more like the ghost of one: bergamot, old paper, and the faint, salty whisper of the Mediterranean. The realtor, a pinched woman named Mrs. Halder, wrinkled her nose as if she smelled a gas leak.