The words hurt, but they're not surprising. He's made it clear that his only interest in this marriage is the baby. "I'll take care of myself," I say quietly.
"Good." He pours himself a cup of coffee, and I notice he doesn't offer me one. "I'll be working most of the time. I have responsibilities to your father, Romeo, and the organization. So you'll have the house to yourself during the day. You can do whatever you want—decorate, invite friends over, whatever. Just don't expect me to be here."
"What about at night?"
"I'll come home when I can. But don't wait up for me. Don't expect me to have dinner with you or spend time with you. This is a marriage on paper only, Giulia. We're roommates who happen to share a last name. That's all."
I feel the urge to argue again, to beg him to give us a chance. I want to tell him that we can work through this if he'll just try. But I can see in his eyes that it won't make any difference. He's made up his mind. He's built a wall between us, and nothing I say is going to break through it. "Is there anything else?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes." He finally looks at me, and the coldness in his eyes makes me want to cry all over again. "Stop trying to make this into something it's not. Stop looking at me like I'm going to suddenly forgive you and fall in love with you again. It's not going to happen, Giulia. What we had is dead. You killed it. And no amount of wishing or hoping or trying is going to bring it back."
"I understand." I force myself to blink back the heat burning at the back of my eyes. I feel like I’ve cried all my tears out, but if there’s more, I don’t want to shed them in front of him right now.
"Good." He sets down his coffee cup and grabs his jacket from the back of a chair. "I have to go. I'll be back late." He walks past me without another word, without touching me, without even a goodbye. The front door opens and closes, and then I'm alone in the beautiful house my father gave us.
I have everything I thought I wanted, and it's turned into a nightmare I can't wake up from. I place my hand on my stomach. The tears come again, and I let them fall. There's no one here to see them or care.
Just me and the ghost of what we used to have, haunting the empty rooms of this beautiful house that feels like a prison. This is my life now.
And I have to find a way to survive it.
20
LUCA
The Night before
The bedroom doorcloses behind me with a soft click, and I stand there in the darkness, my hand still on the doorknob, trying to remember how to breathe.
I can still smell her perfume in the hallway, the same scent she wore as Valentina that used to drive me insane with want. It clings to me, a reminder of everything I'm trying to forget.
I told her I can't even look at her without feeling sick. Told her I've had all of her I want. Told her our physical relationship is over.
I'm a fucking liar.
I stride down the hall to one of the guest rooms. It’s furnished already, but it feels like a hotel room—there’s nothing personal here yet, no touches to make it feel like a home instead of a newly purchased house. I don’t care; I don’t plan to spend much time here. I’ll come back here to eat and sleep, and that’s it. My plan to throw myself into work to avoid my feelings about my new wife and soon-to-be child hasn’t changed. This is just a place to exist between obligations.
I strip off my jacket and throw it over the chair, then loosen my tie. My reflection catches in the mirror above the dresser, and I barely recognize the man staring back at me. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my jaw is tight with tension. I look like a man who has been drinking too much lately and not sleeping enough, which is entirely accurate.
I unbutton my shirt and toss it over the chair, too. I should shower and try to get some sleep. But as I undo my belt, the picture of Giulia sitting on the bed in the master bedroom, looking at me expectantly as if we’re going to consummate this sham of a marriage, slides back into my head.
I don’t want to fucking want her any longer. I don’t want anything to fucking do with her. But just the thought of her combined with the reminder that this is our wedding night is enough to make me instantly, painfully hard.
The image that flashes into my head is that of Valentina—Giulia—on her knees in front of me, back at the club, those dark eyes looking up at me with a mixture of desire and trust that made me feel like a god. I can still fucking remember the way she'd gasp when I touched her. The way she'd beg so prettily when I made her wait.
"Please, Luca. Please don't stop."
Her voice echoes in my memory, breathy and desperate, and I feel my cock throb, despite the anger and the betrayal and the knowledge that every moment we shared was built on lies. Despite all of it, I still fucking want her. My body hasn’t stopped needing her, even if my mind wants nothing more to do with any of this.
I’d be better off ignoring it. Forcing myself to shove down the need until it goes away… if it ever will. But instead, I reach down like I have every time the memory of her has gotten me hard since that last night, and shove my pants and boxer briefs down.My cock slaps against my palm, and I hiss through my teeth as I wrap my fingers around the slick, straining flesh.
I’m already leaking pre-cum. The relief of finally touching myself is almost painful. I breathe in and smell her perfume, and my jaw clenches as I sink down on the edge of the bed and start to stroke.
I hate myself for this, that I still want her so desperately. I hate that my body doesn't care about the lies or the manipulation. My hand moves in a familiar rhythm, and I let the memories wash over me.
The first time I saw her at the club, masked and mysterious, radiating a confidence that drew me like a moth to flame. The way she'd responded to my touch, like she'd been waiting her whole life for someone to want her like I did. The way she'd looked at me when I made her come, like I was her entire world.
It was all a lie.
