I stare at him for a second longer, stupidly hoping he’ll take it back. That he’ll step toward me. That he’ll say my name in that low voice and undo all of this.
He doesn’t.
So I nod once because there’s nothing else left to do. I turn around and walk away before he can see how badly that one sentence hurt.
I don’t look back. Because if I do, I know I’ll run to him.
And he already let me go.
19
VIKTOR
After she’s gone,I stand in the hallway for a moment and do nothing.
I can still hear her footsteps fading. I can still see her face when she asked me if this was a breakup. I could have said no. I could have softened it. I could have done any number of things that would have made the look in her eyes less hard to carry.
I didn’t.
So I let myself feel that for exactly three seconds, then I go looking for my son.
I find Ethan in one of the smaller sitting rooms off the main corridor. He’s half sprawled on the sofa, jacket off, shirt open at the throat, one forearm over his eyes like the world has personally wronged him. Alina is standing by the fireplace, still dressed, still upright, still furious.
She turns the second I walk in. “I want that girl out of the wedding,” she says.
I shut the door behind me and look at her. “Then the wedding won’t happen.”
Her eyes narrow at once. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m telling you the truth.”
Ethan shifts on the sofa but doesn’t sit up. Good. Let him stay where he is until he remembers how to behave like an adult.
Alina folds her arms. “She has already caused enough damage.”
“No,” I say. “Your son caused damage. Camille caused damage. Sienna has been cleaning up after both of them since she got here.”
“That is not how it looks.”
I almost laugh. “Since when have you been interested in how things look?”
She gives me a sharp, humorless smile. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Let’s not do this here,” I say.
That only annoys her further. “Of course,” she says. “Let’s never do anything here. Or there. Or anywhere uncomfortable. That has always been your preferred method.”
I look at her for a second and say nothing.
She hears her own tone, but she’s too angry to step back from it now. “You only ever cared for yourself,” she says.
I could answer that. I could answer it well. We both know the shape of our marriage. What I was. What she was. What weallowed each other to become because it was easier than honesty and more useful than affection.
But I have no interest in digging up the corpse of my marriage at nine in the morning while my son sleeps off whiskey on the sofa.
So I say nothing.
That, predictably, enrages her more. “Look at him,” she says, gesturing toward Ethan. “This is what your household does to people. Secrecy, control, silence, women moving in and out of rooms like we’re all supposed to pretend not to notice. And now this.”
