I stand in the doorway for three long seconds and feel… nothing like what I should.
That’s probably the most alarming part, if I’m being fair. A husband with any traditional claim to his own marriage would likely feel something sharper. A cut to pride, a punch of humiliation, or anger hot enough to shake the hand.
I feel none of that, but not because I am saintly. God, no. Dismay requires investment, and what Arabella and I built together was never the kind of structure likely to inspire jealousy when it cracks.
I don’t even feel betrayal at first. I feel… tired, maybe. Dryly unsurprised. The kind of weariness that comes when the universe decides to make a point, and you can already see the shape of the lesson before anyone speaks.
The strongest thing in me at that moment is the dry, almost amused thought that Nikolaj is going to find this hilarious.
I step fully into the room, fold my arms over my chest, and clear my throat.
It’s not even a particularly loud sound.
Lucien wakes like a soldier. One second dead asleep, the next upright and scrambling, the sheets tangling around his legs as his eyes snap open and find me in the doorway. The blood drains from his face so fast, I’m honestly impressed.
“Jesus—” he chokes out, already halfway to his feet. “Vincenzo, I—”
There is a brief, chaotic flurry of limbs and sheets and half-formed explanations while Arabella screams at the sight of me.
I remain exactly where I am and draw the gun before he gets any further.
The motion is so smooth it barely feels like movement. The sound of the safety clicking off is small in the room and somehow louder than Arabella’s scream. Lucien stops speaking instantly, both hands going up without any real decision involved. Good. Learned behavior is one of the few things still worth relying on.
“Shut up,” I tell him, and he does.
Arabella has gone sheet white. She is clutching the comforter to her chest with one hand, the other pressed to her mouth as if she might still be able to contain this by looking horrified enough. She’s beautiful even like this, and the tragedy is that beauty has never once been the problem between us.
It’s easier to survive ugliness in a marriage. Harder when the person opposite you is lovely and intelligent and fundamentally unsuited to the life she’s been living.
I keep the gun trained on Lucien and look at my wife.
“Arabella,” I say calmly. “What is this?”
That breaks her more effectively than shouting would have.
Some part of her was prepared for rage. For thrown objects, raised voices, maybe even violence. She wasn’t prepared for composure.
It forces honesty into the room where drama might have given her cover. Her face crumples and then hardens again, all in the span of one breath, because Arabella has always preferred anger to shame when given the choice.
“What does it look like?” she snaps.
“It looks sloppy.”
Lucien makes a small sound that might be my name again. I shift the gun an inch higher in his direction without taking my eyes off Arabella.
“Shut up,” I tell him, “and let my wife speak.”
Arabella stares at the gun, then at me, then at Lucien, and some of the screaming panic drains out of her face, replaced by exhausted fury. “Put that away.”
“No,” I say. “Talk. I want to know why this had to be done in our bed.”
Her mouth twists. “You don’t get to stand there and act righteous.”
“I’m not acting anything.” I keep the gun exactly where it is, pointed at Lucien, because I know him well enough to know he’ll be the first one to make a stupid move in the name of dignity. “I’m asking a question before pride dictates I kill you both.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and I see the exact second she realizes there is no jealousy in my face. No heartbreak, and no husbandly devastation. That hurts her in a way I don’t think the gun does.
“I was lonely,” she snaps, and the words come out with years behind them. “I wanted closeness. I wanted something that felt real for once in this godforsaken house.”
