"This is yours," Dante said quietly. "For as long as you need it. No expectations. No demands. No pressure."
I stepped inside. Turned slowly, taking in the details. A reading lamp beside the bed. A soft throw blanket folded at the foot. Books on the nightstand—novels, I noticed, not the business texts or biographies I'd expected.
Someone had paid attention. Someone had thought about what I might want.
"The door has a lock," Dante added. "Use it if you want. I won't be offended."
I turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, watching me with that same unreadable expression, his hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't trust them.
"Why?" The word came out barely above a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"
Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe. Or recognition.
"Because it’s right."
He didn't elaborate. He just stepped back, his hand on the doorknob.
"Goodnight, Gemma. Sleep well."
The door closed behind him. I stood in the middle of my beautiful room, my wedding dress still pooling around my feet, and tried to make sense of what had just happened.
I should be relieved. I was relieved—wasn't I? He'd given me exactly what I'd wanted without knowing I wanted it. Space. Safety. Time to breathe.
I changed out of the dress with mechanical movements, hanging it carefully in the closet that had been stocked with my clothes at some point during the reception. Someone had unpacked my things. Arranged them neatly. Made this space mine.
I found a silk nightgown in the drawer where I would have kept one, slipped it on, and climbed into the bed with its crisp white sheets and its soft pillows and its absolute, utter safety.
I should sleep. I was exhausted—hours of performing, of fear, of the emotional whiplash of this entire impossible day.
Instead, I lay awake.
My fingers drifted to my lips without my permission. Touching where he'd kissed me. Where he'd been warm and gentle and everything I hadn't expected.
I will never take something from you that you haven't freely chosen to give.
The words echoed in the darkness.
I should be relieved.
Instead, lying alone in my beautiful safe room with my husband's restraint ringing in my ears, I found myself wondering something dangerous.
What would it feel like to choose him?
To ask him to touch me—not because I owed him, not because I was afraid, but because I wanted him? What would his hands feel like on my skin if I'd invited them there? What would his mouth feel like if I'd pulled him down to me?
His restraint was supposed to make me feel safe.
Instead, it felt more dangerous than his desire ever could have been.
Because a man who demanded things from me, I knew how to resist. A man who took what he wanted, I knew how to survive.
But a man who waited? A man who gave me space and choices and the terrifying freedom to want him on my own terms?
That was a man who could break down every wall I'd ever built.
I touched my lips again.
And didn't sleep for hours.
