I wonder if she touches herself in the dark, remembering the way we used to be together. The thought makes me hard, and I hate myself for it. Most nights, I lose the battle to that, ending up with my hand around my cock as I stroke myself to thoughts of a woman who both is and isn’t now my wife—a woman who doesn’t exist and does at the same time. I come hard, every time, groaning and forcing myself not to say Valentina’s name orGiulia’s as I spurt into my fist at the thought of the best sex I’ve ever had that I’ll never have again.
Toward the end of the first week, I come home late and found her in the kitchen. She's wearing soft cotton pants and a tank top with no bra, the sight of her nipples pressed against the cotton making my cock twitch despite myself. Her hair is down, falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She looks young and vulnerable, and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
She freezes when she sees me, a glass of water halfway to her lips. "I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I didn't think you'd be home yet. I'll just?—"
"It's your house too," I speak through clenched teeth. "You don't have to apologize for being in your own kitchen."
She nods but doesn't move. "How was work?" she asks after a beat, the question coming out stilted, and the question is so desperately domestic that I want to laugh.
Or scream.
"Fine,” I say harshly. She flinches, but keeps going. I’d admire her stubbornness, her tenacity, if it weren’t part of something that feels like it’s killing me.
"Did you eat? I ordered pasta. There are leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry."
"I ate."
It's a lie. I haven't eaten since lunch, and my stomach is growling. But accepting food from her feels too intimate, too much like the kind of thing a real husband would do.
"Okay." She sets down her glass and moves toward the doorway, clearly planning to leave and give me space. "I'll just?—"
"Giulia."
She stops, turns back to me. There’s a sudden flare of hope in her eyes that makes me feel like the asshole, even though she’s the liar. "Yes?"
I don't know what I was going to say or why I stopped her. I just know that watching her walk away felt wrong somehow.
My jaw clenches. "Nothing. Goodnight."
Disappointment washes over her face, the hope sliding away. "Goodnight, Luca."
She leaves, and I stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by evidence of her attempts to build a life here. The pasta she ordered that I won't eat, and the flowers she bought that I won't acknowledge. The home she's trying to create that I refuse to participate in.
I grab a beer from the fridge and go to my room.
—
Somehow,the second week is even worse. Dante calls me into his office on Tuesday, and I know immediately that something's wrong—he has that look on his face that means someone has displeased him and consequences are coming.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. I sit.
He doesn't speak right away. Finally, he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "The whispers are getting louder.”
I don't need to ask what whispers. "What are they saying?"
"That the marriage isn't real. I forced it to cover up a scandal. That you and Giulia can barely stand to be in the same room together." He pauses. "They're not wrong, are they?"
"We're married. That's real enough."
"Marriage is a piece of paper, Luca. What matters is what people believe. And right now, they don't believe you're in love with my daughter."
The word 'love' lands like a punch to the gut. "With all due respect, what I feel for Giulia is?—"
"Irrelevant." He cuts me off, his voice sharp. "What matters is perception. What matters is that our enemies see a united front, a strong alliance. Not a forced arrangement that can be exploited."
"I'm doing what you asked. I married her. I'm providing for her. I'm?—"
He leans forward, his eyes hard. "You're playing the role in the most minimal way possible. And it's not enough. People are starting to talk. Starting to question. And when people question, they start to test. To probe for weaknesses."
