“The slow burn of want.”
“And one day,” he went on, “when your life begins to slip through your fingers, when you find yourself standing at the edge of it with nothing left to reach for...”
A pause settled.
“...you will understand that all you have ever truly known is absence. Not love. Not warmth. Only the long, quiet endurance of pain.”
Something in my chest coiled painfully.
I exhaled shallowly, fracturing under the weight of the words.
“Vin—“
“Whatever softness you remember in me...” His voice fell silent for a heartbeat.
“...died in that cave.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“What’s left,” he said at last, lifting a single hand between us in a small, controlled gesture.
“...is this.”
Distance. Coldness. Control.
“You are my wife,” he said next, “In name. In law. In punishment.”
Every syllable landed like a verdict.
Another knife turned in my chest—sharper this time.
“Violet loved me fiercely. Always has. She dreamed of our wedding the way other women dream of sunsets—quiet. Certain. Inevitable.”
Each word painted a picture I didn’t want to see.
“I would have given it to her a week ago.”
A pause.
“I had the ring. The venue. The truce papers drafted.”
His gaze didn’t shift.
“Until you walked into that church.”
I folded my arms across my chest, nails digging into my biceps hard enough to ground me.
Anything to keep my hands from shaking.
Anything to keep the fracture inside from showing on my face.
“So this is your idea of punishment?” I asked, my voice steadier than the tightness in my chest.
“Keeping me at a distance while you bring Violet into your house whenever it suits you?”
Vincenzo tilted his head slightly, studying me.
Not like a husband. Not even like an enemy.
