We change in silence, the kind that hums rather than suffocates.
I slip into a robe, pinning my hair up to wash my face while he sheds his suit for a pair of boxer briefs.
The room feels smaller, warmer, and I try to ignore the sight of his bare chest as I climb into bed.
The mattress shifts softly as he joins me, keeping a respectful distance between us.
But something inside me wants to close that distance tonight—maybe not physically, but in the only other way I can think of.
Taking a breath, I brace myself for the hard truths I’ve been avoiding. “Raf… can I ask you something?”
His gaze sharpens, wary but attentive. “Would it change anything if I said no?”
I smile, chuckling softly. “I suppose not,” I say.
“Then, I might as well be agreeable,” he says playfully, his lips quirking into that charming, crooked grin.
“Who’s Genevieve?” I ask softly, scarcely daring to meet his eyes.
The color slowly leaches from his face, stealing my breath.
It’s like watching a wall collapse, all that control cracking in a single, silent fault line.
His jaw tightens.
His eyes darken—not with anger, but with something raw and devastating. Pain floods his expression.
And the sight of it makes my heart wrench.
18
RAFAEL
The pain hits so fast, it feels physical, like a blade sliding between my ribs to pierce my heart.
Genevieve.
Hearing Aisling say her name rips something open inside me that I’ve spent far too many hours trying to cauterize shut.
I turn my face toward the ceiling, because if I look at Aisling right now, I might break in a way I can’t afford. My jaw locks. My hands curl into the sheets.
For a long second, I say nothing, and the silence stretches, heavy and expectant.
If she doesn’t know, I owe her the truth.
“I assumed it was common knowledge,” I finally say. My voice sounds steady, which feels like a lie. “I never tried to hide the marriage—or how she died. Then again, my father never supported our relationship, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he took efforts to sweep it under the rug.”
Aisling shifts beside me. I feel the movement more than I see it, the mattress dipping, her attention sharpening as she scoots closer. “I didn’t know,” she says quietly.
Of course not. I almost wish she did because just thinking about Genevieve twists like a knife.
Talking about her might be more than I can endure. But I won’t keep secrets from Aisling.
We’re in this pact together—fake marriage or not—and she deserves all the gritty details of what brought us to this point.
Blowing out a breath, I push my back up against the headboard, then drag a hand down my face. My fingers tremble, so I lace them together to hide it.
“I met her at Portentia’s,” I start simply.