He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. “You wanted to believe it. That’s not on me.”
It’s such a simple phrase—nine words—but it tears something inside me clean open.
I take a step back, my hands shaking. “You really are heartless.”
He doesn’t deny it. The quiet between us feels heavier than shouting ever could. The rain outside hits the glass harder, the thunder rolling closer again.
For a moment, I almost wish he’d yell. Or apologize. Or say my name the way he does when he’s trying not to want me. Anything but this cold, measured silence.
But he just watches me, calm as ever, like I’m a problem that’s already been solved.
“I should’ve listened to you,” I say softly. “When you said you don’t do relationships. I just didn’t realize that meant you don’t do people either.”
I turn before he can see the tears forming.
“Mara—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say my name like it means something to you. It doesn’t.”
He stays where he is. Doesn’t follow. Doesn’t stop me.
That’s how I know it’s really over. Whatever illusion I built around us, whatever story I told myself to make it easier to breathe in this house full of ghosts and men who make promises with guns instead of words.
He never saw me. Not really.
I was just another obligation to manage. Another distraction to silence. Another body he could use to feel human for a few minutes before going back to pretending he wasn’t.
I walk out fast before my knees give out. The corridor’s colder now, the air sharp against my skin. My vision blurs, but I keep moving. By the time I reach the stairs, the tears are already spilling, hot and humiliating. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep the sound in. It doesn’t work.
“I thought I could change him,” I whisper to the empty hallway. “I thought there might have been more. I really thought?—”
The words break apart before I can finish.
I stop halfway up the stairs and sink onto the step, burying my face in my hands. My shoulders shake, the sound of my breathing too loud in the quiet.
Duchess pads down from somewhere above, her tiny paws silent against the stone. She sits beside me, tail curling around my leg like she’s trying to comfort me.
“I should’ve known better,” I tell her, voice trembling. “Men like him don’t feel. They just mimic those who do to get what they want. Except he didn’t have to do that with me. I did this to myself.”
The storm outside rages again, wind rattling the shutters, rain hammering the stone. It sounds like the world’s coming apart. Maybe it is.
Because in this moment, it feels like I am too.
39
MARA
Aweek passes in silence.
Not the kind that’s peaceful. The kind that eats at you. The kind that turns every glance into a question you’re too afraid to ask.
Nicolo and I haven’t spoken since that night in his office. Not properly. Not beyond the basics. He walks past me like I’m air, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt.
I tell myself I’m fine. That maybe he’s right. That distance is easier. But every time I hear his footsteps down the hall, my chest tightens, stupid and traitorous.
I keep catching him when I’m not supposed to. In the courtyard talking on the phone, voice low. At breakfast, reading the paper like nothing’s broken. At night when I walk past his office and see the light still on under the door.
He doesn’t look up. He never does. It’s been seven days. Seven long, heavy days of pretending not to care.
