Page 3 of The Ache That Stayed

I turned slightly, scanning the room out of habit. I catalogued exits automatically. Bartender. Security near the stairwell. Three men already drunk enough to start problems.

And then—my eyes landed on her.

Something about her snagged against my attention before I could look away. Black lace clung to her body, skimming the tops of her thighs. Full sleeves in sheer lace. A neckline low enough to invite sin. She wore a matching black laced masquerade mask, half-hiding her face but not her effect. Her body was soft where most women here were sharp—curves that didn’t apologise for existing.

Her body moved to the beat. Her hair fell in loose waves against her exposed back. The burgundy in her hair almost looked red as the light caught it, making it look like she was wearing a crown of fire.

She reminded me of her.

I killed the thought before it could fully form.

The rhythm in my chest slowed strangely. The noise didn’t stop—but my body did. A glass clinked somewhere behind me. I registered it like it mattered. My heartbeat dropped into a strange, deliberate rhythm. As though my body had found a frequency it had been searching for without realising it.

This was new.

I didn’t feel hungry.

I didn’t feel violent or numb.

I felt… alert. Focused.

She turned her head slightly, eyes flicking in my direction through the mask. Just a glance. Barely a second. But it was enough.

The noise I’d been keeping at bay—the one alcohol and violence usually muffled—surged back, louder than ever.

I turned away and swallowed the amber liquid in front of me, breathing in deeply, shutting my eyes so the music could swallow my thoughts. But it only sharpened them. And every thought was her.

Violence had never scared me.

But this?

This sharp, unbearable awareness beneath my skin for a stranger in a black lace dress? That unsettled me in ways violence never could.

CHAPTER 2

Roxanne / Marcello

Roxanne

ONE WEEK BEFORE

Istormed onto the terrace. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Slow down, amore,” Marcello said calmly.

I found him there, stealing a smoke. He’d tried quitting after Romano was born. But when things slipped out of his control, he reached for a cigarette again.

I paced the terrace while forcing myself to stay composed. It was a habit I’d learned years ago—letting my body panic so my voice wouldn’t have to.

Marcello carried my chaos without complaint, but I had no map to guide him through the fog in my head.

Smiling was easier than explaining.

Easier than admitting I was still splintering in places nobody could see. And every time he believed it, guilt hollowed me out.

Some days, it had been my safest disguise. I wouldn’t disappoint him. Silence felt kinder than admitting how much of me was still in pieces.

“Talk to me,” he said gently, holding my waist.