“Take your time,” he finally says. “We’ll talk once you’re done.”
Talk?
The opportunity sparks hope in my chest, a faint ember in the wreckage.
I turn toward him, chasing the curiosity of what that conversation might mean, but he’s already walking out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
What’s left isn’t silence. It’s absence. A vacuum that strips the space bare and proves the truth I loathe to admit—I still crave more than I’ll ever get from him.
I force myself to step into the shower. To scrub away the smell of him. The evidence of a choice I should regret but can’t.
I bathe slowly, then reclaim the robe, dry my hair, and fix my makeup, all while clawing back fragments of control in increments so small they barely register.
When I re-enter the main room, exhaustion and nerves weigh heavy, only to find Raffael by the windows, speaking in low tones with Elena.
She turns at my arrival, a flash of pity crossing her face before it smooths into an apologetic smile.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, approaching.
“Stupid,” I answer honestly. “But now that the bar’s on the floor regarding my decision-making, it can only go up from here, right?”
Raffael shifts to face the horizon while Elena’s expression turns pained.
This woman has seen me at my worst. First in the aftermath of my meltdown in the study. Then the brainless belly flop off the side of a moving yacht.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” She brushes past me and into the bathroom.
I stare after her, confused as to what she’s doing.
“I’ve asked her to launder your clothes,” Raffael says without turning from the glass.
Elena returns with my soaked suit and yesterday’s outfit piled in her arms. “I’ll have these taken care of right away.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Thanks…”
She leaves, and the air in the room becomes heavier without her buffer. The click of the door lingers in the quiet, followed by nothing but the soft hum of the yacht. We’re moving again.
Raffael remains at the windows, posture straight, hands in pockets, gaze fixed on the endless blue. He doesn’t move, yet I feel his awareness stretch toward me, sharp and assessing even with his back turned. “I’ve arranged for a doctor to come check on you.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
Sure, I could use the opportunity as a lifeline, but I’m past looking for external avenues to get out of this.
“If not for the near drowning, then for peace of mind,” he says, his voice measured. “I don’t have unprotected sex, but I also don’t expect you to take my word for it. I’ll get tested once the doctor arrives.”
The cruelty he’s kept in his tone for years is no longer there. Now it’s clinical detachment. And somehow the precision cuts just as deep.
I cross to the bed and lower myself onto the corner, the robe clutched at my chest, as if my tight grip could block out the heated memories still circling like vultures.
“I’ve got a birth control implant,” I murmur in a pathetic attempt to return the peace of mind.
“I know.”
My center of gravity tilts. “You know?”
“Certain allowances are made for a blood debt. Access to medical records is one of them.”
Bile creeps up my throat.
