That’s a fucking lie. I’m so close to coming, I’m on the verge of soaking my boxers. All I want in this goddamn world is to be back inside of her, and right after that, for her to leave so I can jerk off and finish before my balls explode.
The silence that follows is suffocating. I can feel her staring at me. I can practically hear the questions she wants to ask and the arguments she wants to make. But she slides out of bed, her perfect, naked body in my periphery, and grabs her clothes off the floor, yanking them on quickly.
"Okay," she whispers. "I'll go."
She walks to the door, and I force myself not to watch her leave and to stay exactly where I am, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
The door closes with a soft click. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, and try to breathe. I’m still ragingly hard, and I can’t form a clear thought between the blinding lust and the panic clawing at my chest.
I can't love her. I can't. She lied to me. Manipulated me. Created an entire false identity just to get what she wanted without giving me the choice to know who I was really with. I can't—I won't—let myself forget that just because my body wants her, just because some traitorous part of my heart is starting to soften toward her.
I need to rebuild the walls she's been slowly dismantling with every desperate touch, every whispered plea, every moment of vulnerability. Tomorrow, I'll be colder. I'll remind both of us exactly what this marriage is and what it isn't.
I'll make sure she understands that nothing has changed.
I leave the house at five in the morning, before she has a chance to wake and find me. I don't leave tea on the counter or food. I don't leave anything that might suggest I give a fuck about her comfort or her needs.
The ginger tea and prenatal vitamins have become a routine, and routines create expectations, which lead to hope. And I can't let her hope for something that isn't going to happen.
At the office, I throw myself into work with an intensity that makes even Romeo raise an eyebrow. "You okay?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe of the small office I've claimed as my own.
"Fine." I don't look up from the reports I'm reviewing, numbers and logistics that don't require me to feel anything.
"You've been here since five-thirty."
"Lots to do."
"Luca." His voice is patient but firm. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." I finally look up, meeting his eyes with the blank expression I've perfected over the past weeks. "I'm working. That's what you pay me for."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing whether to push. Finally, he sighs and straightens. "Dante wants to see us both at ten. Something about the Benedetti family making moves in Sunset Park."
"I'll be there."
He leaves, and I go back to the reports. But the numbers blur together, meaningless, because all I can think about is the look on Giulia's face when I told her to leave last night.
The hurt. The confusion. The desperate hope that I was going to say something different.
I should feel satisfied that I maintained my boundaries. Relieved that I caught myself before I said something I couldn't take back.
Instead, I just feel empty.
—
I’m supposedto meet her for a doctor's appointment that is at two, and I consider canceling and telling her that I'm too busy, that she doesn't need me there.
But I don't. Despite the anger and the resentment and the desperate need to maintain distance, I can't quite bring myself to abandon her completely. So at one-thirty, I leave the office and drive home to pick her up.
She's waiting in the living room when I arrive, dressed in a simple sundress that shows the barest hint of the curve that's starting to form at her belly. She looks tired and pale, like she didn't sleep any better than I did.
"Ready?" My voice is flat, emotionless.
"Yes." She grabs her purse and follows me to the car without another word.
The drive to the doctor's office is silent. I keep my eyes on the road and my hands tight on the steering wheel, my jaw clenched against the urge to say something—anything—to break the terrible quiet between us. She doesn't try to make conversation, either. She doesn't ask why I left without the usual tea and food or why I'm treating her like a stranger again after two weeks of slowly thawing. I’m sure she already has some idea. And maybe she's finally starting to understand that this isn't going anywhere. That the physical connection doesn't mean forgiveness, and that I'm never going to be the man she wants me to be.
We arrive at the doctor’s office, and the receptionist gives us a warm smile that feels entirely out of place given the tension radiating off both of us. "The doctor will be with you shortly," she says. "You can wait in room three."
