Hopefully, he will allow Luca to live. Maybe he’ll send him away to some distant relatives, somewhere safe and far from this world. Or maybe, God help me, he’ll find it in himself to raise him. Though the idea of my son growing up without me makes my throat burn, the idea of him growing up under the tutelage of a man like his father terrifies me even more.
But what other option is there? I don’t want our son to die because of me. But can I stand the thought of him being molded into a monster too?
I draw in a slow, shaking breath and force my feet to move. There’s no sense dwelling on any of that now. If tonight is inevitable, then I will meet it head-on in the only way I know how to.
I carry the tray of toiletries into the master bathroom first. The space is just as enormous as the bedroom. Marble countertops, gold fixtures, twin mirrors wide enough to reflect me from every angle. I focus on the routine instead, turning on the water, testing its warmth, lining the bottles along the counter and seeing what product they decided to lend me.
The act of washing myself becomes a strange, calming ritual, one I can disappear into. I scrub away the scent of the chapel and the dinner and the fear of sayingI do, grounding myself in things I can control instead. Steam fills the room when I finally slip outof my white dress and step into the shower to rinse myself clean. My thoughts blur at the edges as the water scalds my body.
For a few precious minutes, I can pretend I’m somewhere else. Someone else entirely. When I’m finished, I dry off and dab on lotion and spray a little perfume on my neck. It’s too sweet, too floral to be anything I like. It’s nothing close to what I once wore for Dante. Then again, that’s probably the point.
Back in the bedroom, the silk robe waits for me on the bed.
I stop short upon seeing it. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, a violent shudder rolling down my spine. I force myself forward anyway, ignoring the dread pooling deep in my stomach.
Slowly, I peel myself out of the towel I’ve wrapped around myself and pull it around my shoulders. The silk robe is cool and impossibly soft when it slips over my skin. My hands shake so badly, I fumble with the ties and have to try twice before I manage to knot it securely.
How am I supposed to do this? Do I lie still and wait for it to be over? Do I look away? Do I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere far from here, back in New York, curled up beside my son in our tiny apartment? Will he force me to look at him? Force me to accept the pleasure only he knows how to give me even though I shouldn’t want it in the first place?
When the door bursts open, I flinch violently.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up, spinning me around with a gasp as I clutch my hands over my chest protectively.
Dante stands framed in the doorway.
He’s still dressed in his formal attire from earlier, his dark suit still immaculately pressed despite the long day. The crisp lines of it make him look like he just stepped out of a magazine. The light from the hallway cuts across his features, catching in his eyes as they lock onto me.
What reflects back isn’t desire. It’s suspicion.
His gaze sweeps over me in one sharp assessment—the silk robe clinging to my frame, the way my shoulders are drawn tight, the way I’m trembling despite every effort to hold myself together. I can practically feel him cataloging it all.
Whatever he reads on my face only feeds the anger simmering beneath the surface of his control.
“What?” he growls, stepping into the room and slamming the door hard enough behind him that I flinch again. “You think I’d have to force myself on you?”
He crosses the room in a few long strides before I can even think to move away. He crowds me back until the backs of my knees strike the bed. The mattress dips beneath me when I stumble and fall back onto it.
“Don’t play innocent, Elena,” he continues harshly, looming over me. “You laid on your back for me plenty of times without hesitation while you wore my brother’s ring on your finger. Now just because it’s mine, things are suddenly different?”
The words don’t just sting, they slice straight through what little armor I have left. Shame floods my face, crawling up my neck until it feels like hands are tightening around my throat. My chest constricts, turning my breath into shallow and panicked pulls as the humiliation mixes with something far more volatile.
Anger.
Furysoblinding, it blurs my vision for a second.
How dare he?
Howdarehe stand there and speak to me like that? Like I was the only one at fault, likeIhad tempted him and worn him down until he finally gave in to my desires. As if he hadn’t come willingly every single time and begged for me too.
I wasn’t the only one betraying my family directly. I wasn’t the only one lying to everyone around us. I wasn’t the sole architect of our destruction and yet here he is, reducing it all to some ugly, twisted version of what we shared. Painting me as desperate, as though I had offered myself up to him over and over until he finally decided to give in because he had to. He had wanted me just as badly. He touched me each time with want and hunger, whispering my name like it meant something more than whatever sin we were committing. Twisting the past into something that absolves him while simultaneously condemning me.
The unfairness of it burns.
Thehypocrisy.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. Before I can stop myself and let reason catch up to me and freeze the rage burning in my veins before I do something monumentally stupid, my hand comes up.
The crack of my palm against his cheek is sharp and violent. The sound echoes loudly through the room as his head snaps to the side, the force of it reverberating up my arm and leaving mypalm stinging. The impact shocks me almost as much as it does him.
