I swallow hard, clenching my fists at my sides. “Are you… upset with me? If—if you blame me for what happened in the ballroom…” My words falter, my pulse racing as my jaw works, but no sound comes out.
He pauses, and for a heartbeat, he really looks at me, dark eyes scanning my face. I hold my breath, hoping, praying for some flicker of warmth or reassurance.
“I don’t blame you,” he says finally, voice low but firm. “Raf’s safety is my responsibility. The security breach was my fault. Not yours.”
A small relief sparks in me, fleeting but intense. I want to reach for him, to tell him that I understand, that he shouldn’t blamehimself either, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I just nod, trying to hold onto that relief.
Then he adds casually, almost cruelly, “But youarea distraction I can’t afford right now.”
Even the second time around, the words hit me like a punch to the gut. My throat constricts.
And before I can manufacture a response, he brusquely brushes aside the comment. “I’ll be busy tonight. Out late. Don’t wait up.”
My stomach drops, my pulse spiking. I want to argue, to grab his arm, to force him to acknowledge me. But I can’t. He’s already moving, stripping off his damp shirt as he approaches the bathroom. Muscles flexing, sweat shining, controlled and perfect. My heart aches with longing, and the sting of rejection settles in like a stone in my chest.
I step closer, hesitating. “Sandro… wait. Can’t we just… talk for a minute?”
He pauses, towel slung over his shoulder. “We have nothing to talk about. I lost focus last night. I won’t again.”
I open my mouth, but the words fail me. “Do you… hate me?” I try again, softer, fragile.
He stops mid-step, looking at me fully this time. Something flashes across his eyes—an emotion I can’t name—but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. “No.”
But he doesn’t soften, doesn’t drop the walls between us even a fraction of an inch to reassure me that he means it. And my stomach sinks as I realize this is how it’s going to be between us. Maybe indefinitely.
I exhale slowly, fear, guilt, and anxiety overwhelming any sense of relief. I want to say more, to reach out, to tell him that I understand what he’s going through and I’m here. That I’m his wife. That I love him. And I want to support him in any way I can.
But the secret I carry sits heavy in my stomach, tightening with every heartbeat. I’m pregnant. And if this conversation has confirmed one thing, it’s that he’s not ready to hear it.
I keep my hand to myself, wrapping my fingers around the hem of my sweater instead. The thought of telling him now—it would only complicate things. He’s on edge, furious, exhausted, and still holding himself responsible for Raf, for Miko, for everything else he deems more important.
He doesn’t need more worry.
And he definitely doesn’t need the hope of a child only to be disappointed when something goes wrong.
So I stay silent.
Sandro moves toward the shower, towel dropping from his shoulders. I watch the water start, the steam rising, and the faint sound of the tiles warming under it. He doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t ask me to join him, like he once would.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Tears prickle the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. I’m intensely aware of the distance between us now, and it terrifies me. For the first time since our wedding night, a dangerous possibility creeps back into my mind—that my parents were right all along.
When this war is over, Sandro might not want to keep me after all.
The thought guts me, and I wrap my arms around my waist as I fight to hold myself together.
Right now, this baby is the only sure thing that could tether me to him, keep me close enough that I might crawl my way back into his heart. And if I lose it, I won’t just be losing my child. I have a new, horrible certainty that I’ll lose my future with Sandro as well.
Turning on my heel, I rush from the room before Sandro can see me fall apart.
31
SANDRO
The sky is a slate so black it swallows light as we slip wordlessly from the trucks parked along the tree line across from Kenji’s house. It rained earlier tonight, bringing a damp chill to the air that makes my breath plume before me.
Everything smells of cold metal and wet stone. My chest is a drumbeat I can’t turn down. I taste the grit of yesterday’s guilt on my tongue and it fuels me—anger forged from shame. I will not fail again.
We move like ghosts in a line of men who know how to carry silence. Thirty of us, boots whispering across the concrete, dressed in all black, faces painted with the same hard calm. Miko’s already rounding the back of the estate, searching for a second way in—or a place to snipe anyone who tries to escape.
