"Then why—"
"Because I'm so tired, Dante."
The confession fell out of me like something that had been waiting too long to be spoken. I tried to pull my hands back, to rebuild the walls, to become the woman who didn't need anyone—but his grip tightened. Not hard. Just enough to say: stay with me.
"I'm so tired of handling things." My voice broke on the last word. I hated how small I sounded. How weak. "Of winning battles no one should have to fight. Of being—"
I stopped. Breathed. The tears I'd been fighting spilled over, hot tracks down my cheeks that I couldn't wipe away because he was still holding my hands.
"Of being strong," I finished, barely above a whisper. "Because the alternative is being destroyed."
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.
Dante didn't speak. He just stood there, holding my hands, watching my face with that terrible intensity that made me feel like he was seeing every crack in my foundation.
"I've been surviving my whole life," I heard myself say. The words kept coming, pulled out of some place I'd kept locked for years. "My mother died when I was twelve. My father—you've met my father. You know what he sees when he looks at me. And then—"
I couldn't say his name. Couldn't form the syllables that would bring Enzo into this room.
"And then there was someone else," I continued, "who promised to take care of me. Who said I was special. Who made me believe—"
My voice cracked. Shattered. I closed my eyes against the memory of it—sixteen years old and so desperate to be loved, so willing to believe anyone who offered the slightest warmth.
"He didn't take care of you." Dante's voice was quiet. Certain.
"No." The word tasted like ash. "He didn't."
I opened my eyes. Found him still watching me, still holding my hands, still steady as stone while I fell apart.
"I learned how to survive him," I said. "I learned how to fight back with words instead of fists, because fists were never an option for someone like me. I learned to smile when I was breaking. I learned to build walls so high that no one could climb them."
My throat ached from the effort of speaking. From the effort of not speaking for so long.
"And it worked. I survived. I survived my father and I survived—him—and I survived this marriage and this family and this world I never chose. But Dante—"
I looked at him. Really looked, letting him see the exhaustion underneath the armor.
"I don't want to survive you."
His hands tightened around mine.
"I want—" I didn't know how to finish. Didn't have words for the thing I was reaching for, the impossible hope that kept flickering to life no matter how many times I tried to smother it.
"Tell me what you want." His voice was rough. Like my confession had scraped something raw in him too.
"I want to stop carrying everything alone."
The words hung between us. Fragile as glass. True as anything I'd ever said.
He guided me to a small sofa near the window, his hand warm at the small of my back.
I let myself be steered, positioned, settled onto cushions that were softer than I expected. He sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched, and kept my hands in his. Like he was afraid I'd drift away if he let go.
Beyond the closed door, the party continued. Music swelled and faded. Laughter rose and fell. The clink of glasses and the murmur of voices—all the sounds of a world that kept spinning even when you were falling apart in a sitting room.
But in here, there was only us.
"I want you."
