Chapter 21 Giulia
GIULIA
The ginger tea appears on the counter every morning like clockwork, and I don't know what to do with the hope it creates.
I wake up nauseous and stumble to the bathroom to empty my stomach of nothing, because I haven't been able to keep much down.
It leaves me shaky and weak, my throat raw, and my eyes watering.
I brush my teeth and wash my face, and try to make myself presentable even though there's no one here to see me.
Luca is always gone by the time I emerge from my bedroom.
But the tea is there, the scent of ginger cutting through the lingering nausea. Next to it this morning, there’s a banana and some graham crackers. Once there was a container of Greek yogurt with a note that just said "protein" in his sharp, angular handwriting.
He never mentions it or acknowledges that he's doing it, and he’s never around long enough for me to thank him.
I'm terrified to say anything anyway, because I'm afraid that if I acknowledge these small kindnesses, he'll stop. He'll realize he's being too soft, too caring, and he'll pull back into that cold, distant place where I can't reach him at all.
So I drink the tea in silence, and eat the fruit and crackers. I take the prenatal vitamins he leaves next to the mug—expensive ones, the kind my doctor recommended, not the generic brand from the drugstore.
I tell myself it means something. That he's paying attention, that he cares about the baby even if he doesn't care about me. It's not much. But it's more than I had even a week ago, when he could barely stand to be in the same room with me.
The tension in our marriage is only growing worse with each passing day.
My father seems determined to build an outward show of happiness between us, creating more and more reasons for us to be seen together.
There are more family dinners, business events, and parties where Luca and I have to appear.
He’s trying to make the family seem strong and united, to avoid further problems, but it feels to me like being shoved through layers of hell one at a time.
I imagine it’s not much better for Luca, which only makes me feel worse.
I have a doctor’s appointment that Luca dutifully attends, barely looking at me and only paying attention to the doctor, which creates an uncomfortable feeling in the room that I know everyone picks up on.
Every interaction is charged with what's unspoken, with the resentment that takes up all the space that should be filled with something else. Something better.
I catch him watching me sometimes. His eyes track my movements across a room with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
His jaw tightens when I walk past him, the muscle jumping beneath his skin like he's physically restraining himself from reaching out.
His hands clench into fists when I'm close enough to touch, his knuckles going white with the force of whatever he's holding back. I know he still wants me physically. I can see it in every tense line of his body, every sharp breath he takes when I accidentally brush against him. I’m not even sure if he fully realizes it, but the desire is still there, as strong as it ever was, maybe stronger because now it's tangled up with anger and betrayal and all the things we can't say to each other.
But he won't act on it. He won’t let himself touch me, because touching me might seem like forgiveness, I suppose. He's made it abundantly clear that he's not ready to forgive me.
I doubt he ever will.
At a family dinner on Thursday night, I'm talking to Savannah when Luca approaches.
He doesn't say anything, just slides his hand around my waist. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, his fingers splayed across my hip, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch.
Sparks leap across my skin, and I can feel my body tightening, clenching, aching for him.
I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
"Having a good time?" he asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear the edge in it.
"Yes," I murmur back, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel, even though it's a lie. I'm exhausted and nauseous and so desperately lonely I could scream.
His hand tightens fractionally on my waist—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that this is a performance.
That the tenderness is fake, manufactured for the benefit of the people watching us.
"Good," he says, and then he's gone, moving across the room to talk to Romeo and leaving me standing there with the ghost of his touch burning through my dress.
Savannah gives me a sympathetic look. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically. What else can I say? That I'm drowning in this marriage? That I'm suffocating under the weight of his hatred, and I don't know how much longer I can survive like this?
"Giulia—"
"I'm fine," I repeat, more firmly this time. "Really. Everything's fine."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push, just squeezes my hand once and changes the subject to something safer.
I make it through the dinner and the drive home in silence. I make it through the stilted goodnight in the hallway, where we stand three feet apart like strangers instead of husband and wife. And then I go to my room and cry into my pillow until I'm too exhausted to cry anymore.
This is my life now, this cold, empty existence where the man I love can barely stand to look at me. Where every small kindness—a cup of tea, a package of crackers—feels like a lifeline I'm too afraid to grab onto because it might be yanked away at any moment.
I don't know how much longer I can do this.
And then, about six weeks after our wedding, I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, my heart pounding and my body flooded with adrenaline. The sound is coming from down the hall, from Luca's room, I realize, and it's not just screaming. It's the sound of someone in absolute terror. Thrashing. Gasping. The thud of something hitting the wall.
I'm out of bed before I fully process what I'm doing, my feet carrying me down the hallway toward his door. I should probably leave him alone and let him deal with whatever nightmare has him in its grip. But I can't stand the sound of his pain, even after everything.
Especially after everything.
His door is closed but not locked. I push it open and find him tangled in his sheets, his body arched and tense, his face contorted. He's mumbling something I can’t make out, the garbled words harsh and broken.
"Luca." I move toward the bed. "Luca, wake up."
He doesn't respond. He just keeps thrashing, keeps making those terrible sounds that make my chest ache. I reach out and touch his shoulder gently. "Luca, it's okay. You're—"
I don't get to finish the sentence.
One second I'm standing beside the bed, my hand on his shoulder. The next, I'm on my back on the mattress, the air knocked out of my lungs, and his hand wrapped around my throat.
His eyes are open and unfocused, still lost in whatever hell his nightmare dragged him into.
His grip is tight, not tight enough to cut off my air completely, but tight enough that I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm.
His body is covering mine, pinning me down, his weight solid and overwhelming.
For a moment, we both freeze.
I can feel his heart racing against my chest and the tremor in his hand where it's wrapped around my throat. His breathing is harsh and ragged, his pupils blown wide with adrenaline and fear.
And then he blinks. I watch the moment he comes back to himself and realizes where he is and what he's doing, who he's got pinned beneath him.
"Giulia." My name comes out strangled. "Fuck. I—"
His hand is still on my throat, his thumb resting against my pulse point.
His body is still covering mine, his hips pressed against mine in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything.
We're both breathing hard, the air between us electric with the tension that's been building for weeks.
I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the desire fighting with the anger, the need fighting with the pride.
And then something breaks, and he kisses me.
It's not gentle or tender, or anything like the way he used to kiss me at the club when he thought I was Valentina and everything was still perfect between us.
This kiss is angry and desperate, full of all the things we haven't said to each other, all the resentment and hurt and longing that's been festering in the silence.
But he wants me, and I want him too, more than either of us would ever admit out loud.
I kiss him back with equal desperation, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my body arching into his. I've been starving for this, for any touch, any connection, any sign that he still feels something for me beyond contempt.
His hand tightens fractionally on my throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that he's in control here.
That this is happening on his terms, not mine.
"This doesn't change anything," he says against my mouth, his voice rough and harsh.
"I'm still furious with you. I still don't forgive you. This is just—"
"I know," I gasp, cutting him off before he can finish. "I know. It doesn't mean anything. I understand."
I'm lying. It means everything to me. But I'll say whatever he needs to hear if it means he'll keep touching me. If it means I can have this, even if it's just for tonight.
He makes a sound low in his throat, between a growl and a groan, and then his mouth is on mine again, harder this time. His free hand slides down my body, rough and possessive, pushing up the hem of my nightgown with an urgency that borders on violence.