I can’t look at her.
“Did you ever?” she asks, voice trembling. “Even for a second?”
My jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
The room feels smaller now. The air heavier. I want to tell her the truth: that of course I cared, that I’ve thought of nothing else for days, that every breath since I told her to stay away has hurt.
But if I do, she’ll stay. And if she stays, she’ll get hurt. And I won’t survive that.
So I lie. “No. I never did.”
She stumbles back a little, like I’ve hit her. The tears fall fast now, but she doesn’t make a sound. She just stands there, breathing hard, looking at me like she’s trying to memorize the shape of the wound.
Her knees give out first. She sinks to the floor, her palms pressing against the carpet, shoulders shaking.
“Why?” she whispers, her voice breaking on the word. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you need to hate me,” I say, my voice low. “It’ll make leaving easier.”
She shakes her head, tears running down her cheeks. “You’re lying.”
I don’t answer. That’s enough of an answer.
“God, I hate you,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I hate that you make me feel like this.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Hold onto that.”
She looks up at me, eyes bright and furious. “I thought maybe there was more.”
I stare into my glass. “You thought wrong.”
For a long time, neither of us speak. The only sound is the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft purr of Duchess curling herself around Mara’s leg.
When she finally finds her voice again, it’s small. “My bags are packed.”
I nod once. “And the cat?”
“She’s coming with me.” She sniffles, swiping another tear from her cheek. “Emiliano said he’d take her.”
“Good.”
She looks around the room one last time, eyes landing on the half-empty bottle, the untouched books, and the cold edges of this house.
“I used to think this place was haunted,” she says softly. “But it’s just you.”
I don’t argue.
She stands, wiping the last of her tears with the sleeve of her sweater. When she finally looks at me, there’s something new in her expression. Not anger. Not sadness.
Acceptance.
“Goodbye, Nicolo.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
She turns, walking toward the door, each step slow, deliberate. When she reaches it, she hesitates just long enough for me to almost say her name.Almost.
