"Nico! How could you hit Miss Mancini!"
Massima grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with manufactured horror.
"It's alright." She clung to him with practiced ease, her body molding against his like she belonged there. "She doesn't need to apologize."
Her voice, gentle. Understanding. Forgiving.
And that wall of ice around him melted once again—for her, always for her.
I thought of who I used to be.
I had believed that if I was caring enough, he would eventually accept me. That if I researched every possible treatment for his condition, if I sent detailed instructions to his physicians, if I devoted myself completely to his wellbeing, his mutism would get better.
I had imagined countless futures for us—futures where he would finally speak my name, where he would look at me the way he looked at her.
But the real Nico Volpe had never belonged to me.
He had always belonged to her.
And I had been nothing but a placeholder, a warm body in a cold bed, a blood-bound wife who meant less than the woman who had abandoned him.
I turned and walked away, leaving them tangled together in the corridor.
The burning in my cheek would fade.
The burning in my chest would take longer.