Chapter 38 Mara
MARA
The walls feel smaller tonight. The rain hasn’t stopped, but the thunder’s moved farther away—just a distant growl now, like the sky’s running out of ways to be angry.
I wish I could say the same for myself. I haven’t slept. I’ve been pacing my room for hours, barefoot, hoodie pulled tight, every sound in this house pressing in on me. The echo of his voice hasn’t left my head since last night. It plays on a loop, each time cutting a little deeper.
He knew. He’s known for days. Maybe weeks. He let me walk around here like a fool, believing there was something real between us. Every second of silence from him feels like confirmation that I was just another piece in a deal I didn’t agree to.
Maybe I made it all up. Maybe I just needed to believe that someone like him could want someone like me for more than a body to warm his sheets. But now, all I can hear is his voice from last night.
She doesn’t know yet.
I can’t breathe with those words in my head. So I leave before I can talk myself out of it.
By the time I reach his office, my heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s shaking the walls. The corridor’s dark, that soft amber glow from the sconces spilling over the floor, the air heavy with the scent of rain and smoke—his scent.
I push the door open.
He’s at his desk. Always at his desk. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie gone, eyes on the papers in front of him like they’re the only thing that matters.
He looks up when he hears me. Not surprised. Not even annoyed. Just steady. Detached.
“Mara.” My name sounds empty in his mouth.
I close the door behind me. “You knew.”
He doesn’t answer. Not right away. His jaw tightens, barely.
“About what?”
“Don’t do that,” I say, voice breaking before I can stop it. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why? Because it’s easier for you not to look at me?” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “I heard you, Nicolo. You knew about the arrangement. The marriage. You knew, and you said nothing.”
Silence. He doesn’t deny it. He just leans back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the desk. Measured. Controlled.
“Say something,” I whisper.
His gaze flicks to mine. “What do you want me to say?”
That tone. Calm. Emotionless. Like I’m being unreasonable for expecting him to care.
“I don’t know.” My throat feels raw. “Maybe start with I’m sorry? Or I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. Something human.”
He studies me for a moment, then looks away. “You’re emotional.”
I laugh, a sound I don’t recognize. “Emotional? You think this is me being emotional? My life’s being traded away like a fucking favor, and you’re sitting here acting like I’m overreacting.”
“I’m acting like what this is,” he says, voice still low, too calm. “A deal. One that keeps you alive.”
“Is it really being alive if I’ll be living in a cage?” I snap. “You think I care about being alive right now? I care about what this means. About what it says about you.”
He stands then—slow, deliberate, the movement too quiet for the storm in my chest. “What does it say about me?”
“That you knew,” I say. “That you knew and you let me keep believing that maybe there was more to this than whatever you tell yourself it is.”
His expression doesn’t change. That’s what hurts the most.
“You’re not a child, Mara. You knew what this was from the start.”
“Did I?” My voice shakes. “Because I thought maybe it was becoming something else. I thought you—” I stop. The words stick, but I force them out anyway. “I thought maybe you were starting to feel something.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. If there’s anything behind his eyes, it’s gone before I can see it.
“I told you from the beginning,” he says quietly. “I don’t do relationships.”
“You say that like it’s some kind of warning label I ignored.”
“It was.”
“You think that excuses everything?” I ask. “You think saying I warned you makes this, okay?”
“No.” His voice is flat again. “It makes you na?ve.”
I swallow hard, the taste of bitterness and disbelief thick in my mouth. “You could’ve said something. You could’ve told me the truth.”
“And what would that have changed?” He steps closer, but his tone stays detached and clinical. “You’d still be his sister. I’d still be the man who made a deal with your brother, and I’m only looking to get what I bargained for. Nothing more.”
“I didn’t ask you to save me,” I say, my voice breaking on the last word. “I just thought maybe you’d want to try.”
That’s what does it: the smallest shift in his expression, a flicker of something that almost looks like regret.
Then it’s gone.
“This…” he says, gesturing between us. “…was never supposed to be complicated.”
“Then why did you make it that way?” I ask. “Why did you kiss me like it meant something? Why did you touch me like you couldn’t stop yourself if it didn’t matter?”
He doesn’t answer.
“That’s what I hate about you,” I whisper. “You act like everything’s a choice, like you’re above wanting things, but you’re not. You wanted me. You still do. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Mara—”
“I thought I could change you,” I say, and the words hit harder than I expect. “I thought there might have been more. I really thought you’d see this as something more than just sex.”
His silence is an answer in itself. Cold. Final.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “I did warn you.”
It feels like being punched.
“That’s it?” I ask. “That’s all you have to say?”
He nods once. “You knew what this was.”
I shake my head. “No. You knew what I hoped it was. And you let me believe it anyway.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. “You wanted to believe it. That’s not on me.”
It’s such a simple phrase—nine words—but it tears something inside me clean open.
I take a step back, my hands shaking. “You really are heartless.”
He doesn’t deny it. The quiet between us feels heavier than shouting ever could. The rain outside hits the glass harder, the thunder rolling closer again.
For a moment, I almost wish he’d yell. Or apologize. Or say my name the way he does when he’s trying not to want me. Anything but this cold, measured silence.
But he just watches me, calm as ever, like I’m a problem that’s already been solved.
“I should’ve listened to you,” I say softly. “When you said you don’t do relationships. I just didn’t realize that meant you don’t do people either.”
I turn before he can see the tears forming.
“Mara—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say my name like it means something to you. It doesn’t.”
He stays where he is. Doesn’t follow. Doesn’t stop me.
That’s how I know it’s really over. Whatever illusion I built around us, whatever story I told myself to make it easier to breathe in this house full of ghosts and men who make promises with guns instead of words.
He never saw me. Not really.
I was just another obligation to manage. Another distraction to silence. Another body he could use to feel human for a few minutes before going back to pretending he wasn’t.
I walk out fast before my knees give out. The corridor’s colder now, the air sharp against my skin. My vision blurs, but I keep moving. By the time I reach the stairs, the tears are already spilling, hot and humiliating. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep the sound in. It doesn’t work.
“I thought I could change him,” I whisper to the empty hallway. “I thought there might have been more. I really thought—”
The words break apart before I can finish.
I stop halfway up the stairs and sink onto the step, burying my face in my hands. My shoulders shake, the sound of my breathing too loud in the quiet.
Duchess pads down from somewhere above, her tiny paws silent against the stone. She sits beside me, tail curling around my leg like she’s trying to comfort me.
“I should’ve known better,” I tell her, voice trembling. “Men like him don’t feel. They just mimic those who do to get what they want. Except he didn’t have to do that with me. I did this to myself.”
The storm outside rages again, wind rattling the shutters, rain hammering the stone. It sounds like the world’s coming apart. Maybe it is.
Because in this moment, it feels like I am too.