"I'm fine," I repeat, more firmly this time. "Really. Everything's fine."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push, just squeezes my hand once and changes the subject to something safer.
I make it through the dinner and the drive home in silence. I make it through the stilted goodnight in the hallway, where we stand three feet apart like strangers instead of husband and wife. And then I go to my room and cry into my pillow until I'm too exhausted to cry anymore.
This is my life now, this cold, empty existence where the man I love can barely stand to look at me. Where every small kindness—a cup of tea, a package of crackers—feels like a lifeline I'm too afraid to grab onto because it might be yanked away at any moment.
I don't know how much longer I can do this.
And then, about six weeks after our wedding, I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, my heart pounding and my body flooded with adrenaline. The sound is coming from down the hall, from Luca's room, I realize, and it's not just screaming. It's the sound of someone in absolute terror. Thrashing. Gasping. The thud of something hitting the wall.
I'm out of bed before I fully process what I'm doing, my feet carrying me down the hallway toward his door. I should probably leave him alone and let him deal with whatever nightmare has him in its grip. But I can't stand the sound of his pain, even after everything.
Especiallyafter everything.
His door is closed but not locked. I push it open and find him tangled in his sheets, his body arched and tense, his face contorted. He's mumbling something I can’t make out, the garbled words harsh and broken.
"Luca." I move toward the bed. "Luca, wake up."
He doesn't respond. He just keeps thrashing, keeps making those terrible sounds that make my chest ache. I reach out and touch his shoulder gently. "Luca, it's okay. You're?—"
I don't get to finish the sentence.
One second I'm standing beside the bed, my hand on his shoulder. The next, I'm on my back on the mattress, the air knocked out of my lungs, and his hand wrapped around my throat.
His eyes are open and unfocused, still lost in whatever hell his nightmare dragged him into. His grip is tight, not tight enough to cut off my air completely, but tight enough that I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm. His body is covering mine, pinning me down, his weight solid and overwhelming.
For a moment, we both freeze.
I can feel his heart racing against my chest and the tremor in his hand where it's wrapped around my throat. His breathing is harsh and ragged, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline and fear.
And then he blinks. I watch the moment he comes back to himself and realizes where he is and what he's doing, who he's got pinned beneath him.
"Giulia." My name comes out strangled. "Fuck. I?—"
His hand is still on my throat, his thumb resting against my pulse point. His body is still covering mine, his hips pressed against mine in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything. We're both breathing hard, the air between us electric with the tension that's been building for weeks.
I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the desire fighting with the anger, the need fighting with the pride.
And then something breaks, and he kisses me.
It's not gentle or tender, or anything like the way he used to kiss me at the club when he thought I was Valentina andeverything was still perfect between us. This kiss is angry and desperate, full of all the things we haven't said to each other, all the resentment and hurt and longing that's been festering in the silence.
But he wants me, and I want him too, more than either of us would ever admit out loud.
I kiss him back with equal desperation, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my body arching into his. I've been starving for this, for any touch, any connection, any sign that he still feels something for me beyond contempt.
His hand tightens fractionally on my throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that he's in control here. That this is happening on his terms, not mine. "This doesn't change anything," he says against my mouth, his voice rough and harsh. "I'm still furious with you. I still don't forgive you. This is just?—"
"I know," I gasp, cutting him off before he can finish. "I know. It doesn't mean anything. I understand."
I'm lying. It means everything to me. But I'll say whatever he needs to hear if it means he'll keep touching me. If it means I can have this, even if it's just for tonight.
He makes a sound low in his throat, between a growl and a groan, and then his mouth is on mine again, harder this time. His free hand slides down my body, rough and possessive, pushing up the hem of my nightgown with an urgency that borders on violence.
I should probably be scared. I should push him away and demand that he treat me with more respect, more care. But I don't care about any of that. I want this. I want to feel something other than the constant ache of his absence. I want proof that I still affect him, that he still wants me even if he hates me.
