Even the silence.
Vincenzo simply watched.
Then—he nodded once.
“I knew it.” He pushed off the wall, each step deliberate.
He passed the spreading stain and leaned one hip against the table, close enough to reach me if he wanted.
“You spilled it on purpose,” he said, voice low and measured. “So you wouldn’t have to drink it.”
The accusation hung heavy between us.
“No—”
The word rushed out before I could catch it. “It was an accident. I swear.”
My hands rose slightly, almost pleading.
“You can check the kitchen footage. I didn’t tamper with anything. I would never—”
“The cup didn’t spill in the kitchen,” he interrupted, voice low.
“It didn’t spill while you carried it up the stairs. It didn’t spill while you set it down on this table. Yet somehow... magically, it spilled the exact moment you were about to take a sip.”
His head tilted slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Elena.”
The words landed clean.
There was no room left for argument.
I stared at the shattered porcelain and the dark pool of coffee spreading across the carpet like spilled ink.
The stain grew wider by the second, seeping into the fibers, permanent.
Just like the accusation now hanging in the air between us.
My throat tightened.
There was nothing left to say.
No explanation that would reach him. No truth he cared enough to believe.
In his eyes, the matter was already decided.
I had tried to poison him. And that alone changed everything.
The weight of that realization pressed down on my chest, heavier than any bruise, heavier than anything he had ever done to me physically.
I turned away without another word.
My legs felt unsteady as I crossed the room, each step slower than the last, like my body was resisting the movement.
I reached the edge of the bed and slid in, the sheets cool against my skin.
I slipped under the duvet, pulling it up close to my jaw, letting the weight of it settle over me like a fragile shield.
