“It’s hard to understand why her death affected Rafael that deeply,” he continued. “From what I saw during their marriage,there was no love between them. At least not in the way people assume.”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“But there was something else. Something unspoken. A kind of bond... or agreement. I never fully understood it. Whatever it was, it kept him tied to her through everything—the first years of their marriage, and especially after she became ill. He never left her side.”
His gaze lowered slightly, as though replaying things he wished he could make sense of.
“After she died, the silence in the house was deafening. He’d sit in her room for hours, staring at the empty bed, replaying every moment like it was his fault.”
A pause.
“I tried to investigate,” he continued quietly, “especially when I saw the pain you’ve been going through in this marriage... knowing Rafael’s heart still seems anchored to Zara. But no one was willing to talk.”
His voice tightened slightly as he went on.
“I even flew to New York and spoke with Zara’s elder sister, but she refused—shut the door in my face the moment I mentioned Zara’s marriage to Rafael.”
His voice lowered further, more intent now.
“She knows something. I’m certain of it. I’m still investigating. There’s more to their union than any of us realized. Whatever secret they protected, it’s the key to understanding why her death still haunts him like a ghost he can’t outrun.”
A secret?
Silence stretched between us.
I swallowed, the earlier lightness I had felt beginning to dim under the weight of his words.
A dull ache settled deep inside me, familiar in a way I didn’t like.
Because I understood loss.
Maybe not like his—but enough.
“Can you take me to him?” I asked quietly.
Ramiro shook his head. “No.”
The firmness of it caught me off guard.
“He wouldn’t like that,” he added, his tone softening just slightly, but not enough to invite argument. “Rafael doesn’t allow anyone to see him like that. Not when he’s... vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable?” I repeated, something sharper creeping into my voice. “Talking to a grave isn’t vulnerability, Ramiro. It’s—”
“It’s the only way he knows how to cope,” he cut in, still calm, but more resolute now.
I exhaled, frustration prickling under my skin.
“Ramiro,” I said, forcing my voice to steady, “just take me to him. I am his wife, after all.”
The word felt strange on my tongue.
Wife.
His gaze met mine fully now, unwavering.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” he said. “He gave clear instructions. Once the doctor discharges you, I’m to take you straight home.”
Of course he did.
