A broken laugh came through the door. “You really don’t understand?”
“No,” I snapped honestly. “I fucking don’t.”
More silence. Then, finally, “Because you make me forget myself.”
The words landed strangely in my chest. I stared at the door harder, like I could somehow see through it. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I’m starting to like when you touch me,” she admitted shakily. “And I hate myself for it.”
My anger loosened slightly. But only slightly.
“That’s what this is about?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes!” she cried. “You lie and manipulate and humiliate me and ruin my life, and somehow you still make me feel…” Her voice cracked apart again. “Things I don’t want to feel.”
Something dark and possessive unfurled low in my stomach at her confession. Even her confusion belonged to me now. I should have enjoyed it completely. Instead, that strange twisting feeling came back again. The one I only seemed to get aroundher. I rested my forehead briefly against the door, exhaling slowly.
“Chiara.”
“Go away,” she hissed.
“No.”
“I don’t want to look at you, talk to you,” she yelled. “I want nothing to do with you!”
“That’s unfortunate,” I said quietly. “Because you’re still my wife.”
A watery sound came from the other side. Half laugh, half sob. I closed my eyes briefly. Then I said the one thing I hated myself for wanting to say. “Please, bellissima.”
For a long time, the only sound between us was her crying. Quiet at first. Then uglier. Like she’d spent years forcing it down and couldn’t anymore. I stayed outside the bathroom door, jaw tight, one hand braced against the wood while the penthouse sat silent around us. The city lights beyond the windows felt impossibly far away now.
“Chiara,” I said again, lower this time. “Please, Chiara. Talk to me.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” she whispered weakly.
“Like what?” I asked softly.
“That you…” Her voice cracked. “That you want me to love you.”
I frowned. “I told you it was a mistake.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she yelped. Something about the way she said it made irritation flare again.
“Then explain it to me,” I demanded. “Because right now you’re acting like I fucking stabbed you.”
The silence stretched so long I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then I heard the soft sound of her sliding down the other side ofthe door. And when she finally spoke again, her voice sounded smaller than I’d ever heard it.
“My mama used to say it.”
I stilled.
“She told us every day,” Chiara whispered. “Me and Aurora and Matteo and Sienna. Every single day, no matter what happened in that house.”
Her breathing shook unevenly.
“She’d hold our faces and tell us she loved us more than anything. Even when Papa was angry. Even when he hurt us. She always said if we remembered nothing else, we had to remember that.”
Something cold settled low in my chest. I stayed silent.
