“No.”
The word cracked like a whip.
David was on his feet in a fraction of a second, his heavy chair nearly toppling backward from the violent force. He moved around the table with terrifying, possessive speed.
“I’ve got it, Rose,” he said, his voice tight, clipped, and brooking no argument. He stepped right into Katherine’s personal space, taking over the task. “She’s much taller than you, and you’ll only end up hurting yourself trying to keep her upright all the way home. It’ll be easier for her to lean on me.”
Before Rosália could even process the blatant dismissal, David grabbed the silver laptop from the counter with one hand. With his other, he wrapped his thick arm firmly around Katherine’s bare waist. Katherine giggled, completely melting into his side as if she belonged there, her arm immediately looping around his neck for support. Her chest pressed flush against his ribs.
“Thanks, David,” she mumbled, leaning her head intimately against his shoulder.
“I’ll be right back,” David threw over his shoulder, blatantly refusing to meet Rosália’s eyes.
Rosália stood entirely frozen by the dining table, her nails digging into her palms, watching as her husband practically carried the young, beautiful woman out the front door. The heavy oak shut behind them with a definitive, echoingclick.
The house plunged back into its suffocating, agonizing silence.
Ten minutes passed.
Rosália began to pace the length of the kitchen. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around her waist she was bruising her own ribs. She cleared the plates with trembling hands. She loaded the dishwasher, the clinking of china sounding violently loud. She grabbed a sponge and scrubbed the countertops until the marble gleamed, scrubbing until her knuckles ached, desperate to do anything to burn off the panic rising in her throat.
Fifteen minutes.
She walked to the front window, pushing the heavy velvet curtain aside by an inch. The manicured lawns were pitch black. Sean’s massive, imposing house next door was entirely quiet, the dark windows offering no secrets.
Twenty agonizing, torturous minutes.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a frantic, trapped bird. A terrifying, humiliating, overwhelming urge gripped her. She wanted to put on her shoes. She wanted to march across the dark lawn, pound her fists on Sean’s front door, and demand to know exactly what her husband was doing inside that house with that girl.
Just as her hand reached out, hovering trembling over the front doorknob, the deadbolt clicked.
David stepped inside.
He looked slightly flushed, his chest heaving as if he had run a dead sprint back across the grass. He closed the door quickly, aggressively locking the deadbolt behind him, effectively shutting the rest of the world out.
“Is everything okay?” Rosália asked. Her voice betrayed her, trembling noticeably in the quiet foyer despite her desperate attempt to keep it steady. “You were gone a long time. I was starting to worry.”
David wouldn’t look at her. He completely avoided her gaze, walking past her and dropping the house keys into the ceramic bowl with a loud, careless clatter.
“She’s fine. Just incredibly drunk,” he muttered, his tone entirely dismissive. He actively scrubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to physically wipe away the last twenty minutes. “She kept talking. I tried to leave, but she wouldn’t shut up about her sponsors, and I couldn’t just drop her on the floor and walk out. God, she’s exhausting.”
He stopped at the base of the stairs, finally glancing back at Rosália. His eyes were shadowed, completely closed off, impossible to read. The mask was back on.
“I need a shower,” he said, the words heavy and absolute. “I’ll see you in bed, Rose.”
Rosália stood perfectly still in the dark foyer, watching her husband ascend the grand staircase. She tried to make sense of the sudden knot in her chest. Why had she been so on edge waiting for David’s return, when he was only helping their neighbor? It was perfectly innocent, so why was she feeling this intense sense of dread?
Chapter 6
Rosália
The back terrace of the house was a sprawling expanse of slate and manicured hedges, swallowed entirely by the deep, indigo shadows of a quiet Thursday evening.
Rosália sat alone on one of the plush outdoor sofas, her legs tucked beneath her. A half-empty glass of Montepulciano rested on the low fire pit table, the embers long dead. The autumn air carried a sharp, biting chill, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. The house was too quiet. It was too empty.
It had been five days since the excruciating dinner with Katherine, and David had practically become a ghost in his own home. He left for the firm before the sun rose and didn’t return until well past midnight, slipping into bed smelling of cold city air and utter exhaustion. They had barely spoken a dozen words to each other all week.
Rosália wrapped her thick cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders, staring blankly out at the dark silhouette of the oak trees.Just hold on,she told herself, taking a slow, shaky breath.Just make it to the weekend.
