My knees pressed into the carpet, my arms wrapped loosely around them as if holding myself together could shield me from what I had just felt.
I stayed there.
Three minutes.
Maybe more.
Breathing shallow. Still on my knees.
Still trying to process what had just happened.
Then, slowly—my legs obeyed.
I pushed myself upright.
My knees screamed in protest.
A dull, throbbing ache spread through them.
My hands trembled as I steadied myself.
I curled them into fists.
Hard.
Anything to stop the shaking. Anything to stop the feeling.
I felt like trash. Worse than trash.
A wife who had been ordered to her knees.
And then left there.
Unfinished. Unseen.
Unimportant.
How much humiliation could one woman swallow in a single night?
I forced my breathing to slow.
I refused to cry.
Vincenzo didn’t deserve my tears.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I turned away from the door.
Crossed the room.
Each step heavier than the last.
Until I reached the dresser.
The small black box from Matteo Alvarez sat exactly where I had left it.
Untouched. Perfect.
