I can’t tell him why my insides are twisted into knots or why I can’t explain that I am losing my mind over a man who doesn’t owe me any explanations.I can’t admit that I’m terrified my husband is between someone else’s thighs while I sit here waiting like some pathetic fool.
Yesterday, I threw a glass against the kitchen wall just to hear it shatter.I watched the wine drip down the white paint like blood on snow.
It doesn’t make me feel better, but at least it’s something.Some release for the pressure that’s been building inside me.Some proof that I still exist, that I can still feel something other than this gnawing emptiness.
Then I sense guilt because Maria will have to clean it up tomorrow.She will need to scrub wine stains off white paint and pick up glass shards all because I can’t handle my husband disappearing for two days.Because I am an insecure mess who’s falling apart over a man who might not even be thinking about me at all.
She shouldn’t have to deal with my breakdown and clean up the mess of my unraveling.So instead, I do it.It’s a never-ending routine.Two glasses in two days, shattered, and cleaned as if it never happened.
When I finally hear the front door open late in the evening on the second day, I am sitting in the living room with a glass of wine in my hand that I haven’t touched.I just needed something to hold to keep my hands from shaking.
Lorenzo walks in just after midnight—his jacket slung over one arm, and his hair slightly disheveled, as if someone has run their fingers through it.There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that wasn’t there two days ago.He looks tired, worn in a way I’ve never seen before.Heavy dark circles sit under his eyes.His shirt is wrinkled and untucked on one side.But he is still so goddamn beautiful that it hurts to think that someone else has had him the way I have had him.
His eyes lock onto mine across the room.He pauses in the doorway and simply stands there, looking at me, and I see something flicker across his face—the realization that he’s walked into a minefield.
I don’t say anything at first.I just stare at him, making him feel the weight of my silence and the fury I’ve been holding onto for the past two days.I push the jealousy burning inside me deep down where he can’t see it.I refuse to let him know how much control he has over me.I hate that he’s turned me into someone who throws glasses at walls, snaps at staff, and unravels over a man’s absence.I was never this girl before him.
He moves through the house with the confidence of a man who answers to no one, sets his jacket down on the back of a chair, and rolls up his sleeves.The right side first and then the left.His inked forearms flex as he works the fabric.His eyes stay on me the entire time, watching.
I lift the glass of wine to my lips and take a slow sip, keeping my eyes fixed on his, letting the silence simmer between us.
The air crackles and I feel the heat of his gaze on my skin, watching the way his eyes follow the movement of my throat as I swallow.They drop to my lips as I set the glass down.
“Bella,” he finally says.“If you’ve got something to say, just fucking say it.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying him the way he’s studying me.“Who is she?”
He doesn’t answer.Instead he looks at me with those dark eyes that reveal nothing.His jaw ticks.Once.Twice.The only sign that my words have made an impact.
“Answer me,” I say, voice cold.I sound like my father, and I fucking hate it, but I can’t seem to stop.
“No.”
I stand up and set the wine glass down on the table before I give into the urge to throw it at his beautiful face.“Tell me.”
“I don’t answer to anyone, Bella.And I sure as shit don’t answer to you.”
“You vanish for two days without a word, and you think you don’t owe me an explanation?”
“As I said, I don’t owe you anything.”His voice is detached in a way that makes me want to scream.“You are my wife.Not my keeper.”
The words hit me harder than a slap.My face flushes hot as anger and humiliation battles inside me for control.
“Then what the fuck am I?”I ask, my voice cracking, and I hate myself for it.“What am I to you, Lorenzo?”
He takes another step closer, stopping a few feet away, close enough for me to smell him now.He examines me with those unreadable eyes.“You know what you are.”
“Do I?”I can feel the heat radiating from his body.“Because right now I am just another possession.Another thing you own.A piece of property you can ignore when it suits you and fuck when you get bored.”
His jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.“You are not property, Bella.”
“Then what am I?”
“Mine.”
The word lingers between us.Possessive, but it isn’t enough.
“That is not an answer,” I say.