When he saw my disheveled state, he barely frowned. Something about that made my heart lurch in my chest.
Before I could steady myself, he crouched down in front of me, pulled an agreement from his coat, grabbed my hand, and tried to press it into my palm.
“Jericho! What are you doing?!” I panicked, yanking my hand away with all my strength.
In his other hand was a release—a letter of understanding.
Half-squatting in a suit and polished shoes, he looked like a businessman closing a deal, not a husband faced with his wife’s crisis.
“Sign it, Venice. Come on, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
His voice sounded steady; the lines on his brow softened as if nothing catastrophic had happened.
“Verona didn’t do it on purpose. Your mom ending up in a coma? That was her fate. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Cold swept through me; my blood felt like it was running backward.
“Jericho, do you remember you’re my husband?” I asked.
He reached out, pinched my chin between two fingers, his face unreadable.