Soft lamplight painted everything in warm gold, but it couldn’t soften what was underneath.
My fingers moved on their own.
Foundation.
Concealer.
Mascara.
The ritual kept my hands from shaking.
Gave me something to focus on.
Something that wasn’t the weight in my chest.
Something that wasn’t the countdown ticking louder with every passing second.
The nightgown rested against my skin like a second thought.
Translucent. Ivory silk.
Thin enough to hint at every curve without revealing anything fully.
For eight nights, I’d followed the same pattern.
9:55 p.m.
Walk down the corridor.
Knock. Wait. Enter.
Then lie beside him until dawn crept through the windows.
Eight nights.
No touching. No kissing.
No claiming in the way I expected.
No violence. No softness.
Just... presence.
Vincenzo would lie there beside me, unmoving, his breathing steady.
Like he didn’t need sleep.
Like he didn’t need anything at all.
Like he was simply existing to remind me that I was not.
I didn’t understand it.
And that was what made it worse.
Possession without possession.
Control without force.
