Chapter Thirteen #2
What use was their remorse now? It was utterly meaningless. It was a selfish attempt to cleanse their own consciences, and Azar refused to be their absolver.
"That is very kind of you, Beatrice," Azar said. Her voice was soft perfectly polite, and devoid of any human warmth. She reached out and took the book, holding it carefully. "Thank you. I will keep it safe."
She did not offer a comforting touch. She did not tell Beatrice that she forgave her. She simply offered the polite, frictionless response required to end the interaction.
"I am so sorry, Azar," Beatrice choked out, tears spilling over her lashes. "I am so, so sorry."
"I know," Azar replied evenly. "Have a quiet afternoon, Beatrice."
She stepped around the weeping woman and continued down the corridor. If being impeccably polite was the currency required to make them leave her alone so she could do her job and finish her term, then she would be the politest woman on the estate.
While the women of the family suffocated on their guilt, Don Raphael Castellan-Marchetti was existing in a state of agonizing, desperation.
For Azar, the move to the main estate was merely a change of address. For Raphael, it was a Godsend.
He could finally orbit her. He no longer had to stand at the windows of his study, staring out at the distant cottage in the rain.
She was here. She was breathing the air in his home.
She was walking his halls. If sitting in the cold, blue light of the server room and gazing at her for the next twenty months was the limit of what she would allow, then he would take it.
He would carve out his own heart and hand it to her just for the privilege of being in her presence.
Raphael spent every available second in her orbit. The Iron Saint, who usually commanded his empire from the towering heights of his war room, suddenly found endless reasons to conduct his business in the subterranean encryption hub.
He sat at the metal desk beside hers, reviewing shipping manifests and territorial reports, while she coded. He tried to talk to her about anything and everything. He, who was famous for his silences, became desperate to fill the air between them.
"The frost is particularly thick this morning," Raphael murmured one Tuesday, leaning back in his chair, his obsidian eyes fixed on the side of her face. "Ewan mentioned the old olive trees in the southern grove might need thermal wrapping. Have you noticed the temperature drop in the staff wing?"
Azar did not pause her typing. "The ambient temperature in the lower wing is strictly regulated, Don Raphael. It is perfectly comfortable. Ewan is already coordinating with the grounds team regarding the olive trees."
"Are the meals adequate?" he pressed, his frame shifting closer. "I noticed you did not attend the dinner in the main hall yesterday. If you prefer, I can have the chef prepare a separate menu for you."
"The meals provided in the staff dining room are more than sufficient, thank you," Azar replied, her tone a flawless replication of corporate courtesy. "My workload required me to eat at my desk."
She was always polite. She was always professional. She never rolled her eyes, she never sighed, she never raised her voice. No one on the planet could fault her behavior. She was the perfect employee.
And it was tearing Raphael apart piece by piece.
He looked at her hands—the same hands that used to tangle so fiercely in his hair, the hands that had gripped his shoulders as she screamed his name in the dark.
He looked at her mouth—the mouth that used to kiss him with a feral all-consuming devotion, a devotion he had been too stupid and too arrogant to recognize as the most precious thing he would ever possess.
The Azar who had melted in his arms was nowhere to be found. She was a ghost, replaced by a beautiful, impenetrable machine.
Raphael’s heart ached with a longing so intense that it made him physically nauseous.
He wanted to reach out and grab her. He wanted to pull her out of her chair, press her against his chest, and beg her to yell at him.
He wanted her to scream, to hit him, to show him even a fraction of the fiery, passionate girl he had destroyed.
"Azar," Raphael whispered, his gravelly voice cracking under the weight of his despair.
Azar’s fingers paused on the keyboard. She slowly turned her head. Her hazel eyes met his. They were clear, bright, and hollow.
"Is there a specific data anomaly you need me to review, Don Raphael?" she asked patiently, her head tilted slightly in professional inquiry.
Raphael stared into those empty eyes. He felt the crushing reality of his failure. He had all the money, all the power, and all the soldiers in the world, and he could not buy back a single ounce of the love she had once freely given him.
"No," Raphael choked out, his throat burning. He looked away defeated, his hands resting uselessly on the metal desk. "No anomaly. Thank you, Azar."
"You're welcome, Don Raphael," she said, turning smoothly back to her screens, unfazed by the Iron Saint bleeding out beside her.