14. Declan
DECLAN
I'm standing in the driveway staring at the massive house I bought to escape ghosts and somehow filled with new ones instead. The sun's setting, casting everything in that golden light that makes the place look almost warm. Almost livable.
It's not.
Inside it's just silence and expensive furniture and Bianca's shrill voice cutting through rooms like nails on glass.
I don't want to go in.
My phone's heavy in my pocket, still warm from where Zola texted me twenty minutes ago. Just a simple thank you for today that I've read approximately fifteen times trying to decode whether she means it or if she's just being polite.
She let me hold Maeve for two hours. Let me talk to her about the bookstore's finances while she restocked shelves. Let me see the exhaustion behind her eyes and didn't snap when I pointed it out.
Progress. Stellan would call it progress.
I call it torture because every minute with her reminds me what I lost, what I'm still losing, what I might never get back.
The front door looms. Six thousand square feet of emptiness waiting on the other side, and somewhere in there, Bianca. I've been trying to avoid her, and she's been growing more annoying lately. I'm almost tempted to ask where her lover is and if he can come handle her.
I should care that she has one. Probably. The optics alone are terrible—my wife carrying on an affair while I'm trying to rebuild something with the woman who actually matters.
But I don't. Can't make myself feel anything except vague relief that she's distracted elsewhere.
I unlock the door and step inside.
Silence.
The foyer echoes with my footsteps, all that marble and vaulted ceiling designed to impress and instead just amplifying how empty this place is. Bianca's heels aren't by the door. Her purse isn't on the console table.
She's not home.
Thank fuck.
The tension I didn't realize I was carrying bleeds out of my shoulders. I can breathe here when she's gone, can move through rooms without waiting for her to materialize with that calculating expression, without her finding excuses to touch my arm or press against me when she passes.
It's been getting worse. The touching.
Three days ago she cornered me in the hallway outside our separate bedrooms—hers down the hall, mine at the opposite end because I can't stomach sharing space with her—and actually put her hand on my chest. Slid it down toward my stomach before I caught her wrist and moved her aside.
She'd looked genuinely confused when I walked away.
Like she couldn't comprehend why her husband wouldn't want her hands on him after eight months of maintaining careful distance. Like I haven't made it clear I don't want her in my bed in any way.
I thought maybe whoever she's fucking wasn't satisfying her. Thought maybe she was trying to get something from me out of spite or boredom. It's not like she was trying to make an effort or get to know me. This was physical—something that's been happening more lately.
Maybe I should wonder why. But it doesn't matter. I've made it clear without saying a word: not interested, not happening, don't try again.
She hasn't spoken to me since.
Which is fine. Better than fine. I don't want her conversation any more than I want her touch.
The kitchen's exactly as I left it this morning—pristine and unused except for the coffee maker. I head for the small bar, pulling out a bottle of whiskey because I need something to take the edge off.
Need something to stop thinking about Zola's face when she cried. When she called herself sterile like it was a disease, like it made her less somehow.
Like I could ever think of her as anything except everything.
I pour two fingers into a glass and drink it standing at the counter, letting the burn center me.
My phone buzzes.
Stellan: Want to play down at the docks tonight?
I know that is code for getting my hands dirty.
I'm typing a response as I walk around the island, accidentally kicking the trash can that's slightly out of place. It tips, spilling garbage across the tile.
"Fuck." I set down the glass and crouch, gathering coffee grounds and takeout containers and the general debris of existing.
There's a box. Small, white, partially crushed.
I grab it without thinking, ready to toss it back, when I register what I'm holding.
A pregnancy test box.
My brain goes blank for a second. Just completely empty.
Then it catches up, and I'm pulling the box open even though I know what I'm going to find. Even though part of me already understands what this means.
The test is still inside. White plastic, small digital display.
Positive.
The word sits there in clear letters, impossible to misread.
I stare at it for thirty seconds. Maybe longer. Time does something weird, stretching and compressing until I can't tell if I've been crouched on this kitchen floor for minutes or hours.
Bianca's pregnant.
The thought lands heavy, final.
My wife—in name only, in contract only—is carrying a child.
And I've never touched her. Not once. Not even a kiss at our wedding because I couldn't make myself do it, couldn't force that level of pretense when everyone knew the marriage was a business arrangement.
Which means someone else has.
The affair isn't just an affair. It's produced something tangible, something that's going to grow and become real and complicate everything.
I stand slowly, test still in my hand. The kitchen's too bright, all that recessed lighting making the white plastic damn near glow.
This is why she's been pushy. Why she's been trying to get close, trying to touch me, trying to manufacture opportunities for something to happen between us.
She wanted to hide it.
Wanted me to sleep with her so she could claim the baby was mine, so she could keep playing this game where we're married on paper and she does whatever the hell she wants in reality.
Except I never gave her the chance.
My phone's on the counter. I grab it and the test and I'm out the door before I fully register moving, the whiskey forgotten, the spilled trash forgotten.
Everything narrows down to this piece of plastic and what it represents.
Freedom.
The thought hits me as I'm pulling out of the driveway.
This is how I get out. How I finally end this dead-end marriage that's been slowly suffocating me for eight months. Bianca's pregnant with someone else's child, and no amount of Morelli money or family politics can spin that into something acceptable.
Stellan's house is lit up when I arrive, every window glowing. I don't bother with the front door—just use the biometric scanner he installed after I kept showing up bloody at three a.m.
He's in the living room, laptop open, surrounded by the usual chaos of his existence. Mostly just clothes because he seems to be allergic and a few empty bottles.
"I didn't expect you to come here." He looks up, then sees my face. "What happened?"
I hold up the test.
He goes completely still. Just stares at the small piece of plastic like it might explode.
"Is that—"
"Bianca's pregnant." The words feel surreal coming out of my mouth. "Found it in the trash."
Stellan stands, moving closer to examine it like he needs to verify I'm not hallucinating. "You're sure it's hers?"
"Who else's would it be? I live there. She lives there." I set it on the coffee table between us. "And I've never fucking touched her."
"Christ." He drags a hand through his hair, that calculating expression sliding into place—the one that means he's already three steps ahead, already mapping out how this plays. "How long have you known?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen." I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "She's been weird lately. Pushy. Kept trying to get physically close to me, putting her hands on me."
"Which isn't totally unusual, right?"
"It was a little, but I didn't think much of it. Not until now." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "She was trying to sleep with me. Trying to manufacture a situation where she could claim the baby was mine."
Stellan's quiet for a long moment, just looking at the test. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "You're sure you want to pursue this?"
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"The practical kind." He sits across from me. "You pursue this, it gets messy. The families will want explanations. There'll be questions about whose child it is, about what happens to the alliance."
"I don't give a shit about the alliance."
"I know. But they will." He leans back. "I'm not saying don't do it. I'm saying be prepared for fallout."
I meet his eyes. "I've been prepared for fallout since I agreed to marry her. This—" I gesture at the test. "This is just the excuse I've been waiting for."
"Fair enough." He pulls out his phone. "I'll find out who the father is. Shouldn't take long—Bianca's not exactly subtle about her activities."
"She thinks she is."
"Everyone thinks they're subtle. No one actually is." He's already typing, pulling up contacts. "I can have a name by tomorrow. Confirmation by the weekend."
"And then?"
"Then we use it." His smile is sharp, cold. "This would be grounds for an annulment, especially when there's proof of her affair. The Morellis won't be able to argue—not when their daughter got knocked up by someone else while married to you."
The weight that's been sitting on my chest for eight months starts to lift. Not completely—won't be complete until the papers are signed and Bianca's out of my house, out of my life.
But it's starting.
"What do I do until then?"
"Pretend you don't know." Stellan meets my eyes. "Act normal. Don't confront her, don't give her any indication you're aware. We need time to gather evidence, to build a case that's airtight."
"How long?"
"Week. Maybe two if she's being careful about where she meets him." He sets down his phone. "Can you manage that?"
Can I pretend for two weeks that I don't know my wife's pregnant with another man's child? Can I maintain this facade of a marriage while building the case to destroy it?
I think about Zola. About the way she looked at me today when I told her I wanted to be part of her family. About Maeve sleeping against my shoulder and how right it felt, how easy.
About finally having a chance to build something real instead of living in this mausoleum of a marriage.
"Yeah." I nod. "I can manage that."