Chapter 39 Mara
MARA
Aweek passes in silence.
Not the kind that’s peaceful. The kind that eats at you. The kind that turns every glance into a question you’re too afraid to ask.
Nicolo and I haven’t spoken since that night in his office. Not properly. Not beyond the basics. He walks past me like I’m air, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt.
I tell myself I’m fine. That maybe he’s right. That distance is easier. But every time I hear his footsteps down the hall, my chest tightens, stupid and traitorous.
I keep catching him when I’m not supposed to. In the courtyard talking on the phone, voice low. At breakfast, reading the paper like nothing’s broken. At night when I walk past his office and see the light still on under the door.
He doesn’t look up. He never does. It’s been seven days. Seven long, heavy days of pretending not to care.
But pretending only works until it doesn’t. Tonight, I can’t take it anymore.
I find him in his office again, same as always.
The door’s half-closed, light spilling into the hallway in a thin line.
He’s standing by the window, drink in hand, staring out like he’s waiting for something to end.
His tie’s loose, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar open—that effortless control he wears like armor.
I knock once. He doesn’t turn.
“Mara,” he says, flat and low. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Then try harder.”
I step inside anyway, closing the door behind me. “Why are you pushing me away?”
He exhales through his nose, slow, sharp. “You should go.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He finally turns, his expression unreadable. “Don’t start this.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
The air between us is charged, too quiet. His hand tightens around the glass, the faint clink of ice breaking the silence.
“Go to bed, Mara.”
“No.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Not until you tell me why.”
Something flickers in his eyes, annoyance maybe. Or guilt. He looks at me for a long moment, then takes another drink instead of answering. The sound of it burns more than the words he won’t say.
“Nicolo.” I step closer. “Please.”
That gets him. His hand stills midair. For a second, I think he might soften, but when he finally looks up, his eyes are cold again.
“Because it’s easier.” The words are emotionless, but they land like a blade.
I blink. “Easier?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain.
“Easier than what?” I press. “Then feeling something?”
His jaw tightens. He looks away.
I take another step, my heart pounding hard enough that I can hear it. “Easier than admitting that you care?”
“Stop.” His tone is sharp, final. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?” I reach out, grab his tie, and pull him down to face me. “You can’t even look at me without pretending it doesn’t mean anything. You think I don’t notice? The way you…” My voice catches. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention?”
His eyes narrow. “Let go.”
“No.” I tug harder. “Tell me the truth.”
“Mara—”
“Say it!” My voice cracks. “Say you don’t care. Say none of it meant anything. Say it so I can stop being this stupid.”
He stares at me, breathing hard, and for a split second—just one—I see it.
Something raw, almost human, flashes behind his eyes. But it’s gone just as fast.
He grits his teeth. “Don’t be na?ve.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His hand moves fast: up, around my jaw, fingers pressing just enough to make me stop talking. His touch isn’t cruel, but it’s firm. Unyielding.
“You’re smarter than this, Mara.”
“Smarter than what?” I shoot back, the words muffled against his grip. “Smarter than falling for someone who only knows how to push people away?”
His eyes harden. “Enough.”
“No,” I whisper, the word trembling. “You don’t get to shut me out and call it being logical.”
I expect him to yell, to walk out, to end it like he always does. But instead, he lets out a slow breath and releases me. His hand drops; his gaze drifts to the floor. When he speaks again, his voice sounds tired. Human.
“It’s easier to push you away. To make you hate me.”
The words hit differently this time. There’s something beneath them. Something heavy and unsaid.
I swallow. “Easier than what?”
He looks up then, and the silence stretches until I can barely stand it.
Finally, he says, “Than letting you get hurt.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. He turns away, walking to the window. His reflection in the glass looks like a stranger, all sharp edges and shadows.
“Danger is constant in my world. Every enemy I’ve ever made is waiting for a weakness. And if they find it, they’ll go for the throat.”
“Me,” I whisper.
He nods once, but doesn’t look at me. “I can’t have it be you.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?” My voice cracks. “Because you might feel something real for once?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence is enough.
The tears start before I can stop them—hot, angry, unwanted.
“God, you make it sound so simple,” I say, my words shaking. “Like this is a choice. Like I can just switch it off and pretend none of it mattered.”
“You can,” he says quietly. “You just don’t want to.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about this is.”
I laugh once, bitter and broken. “You’re right. It’s not.” Then, quieter, “I thought maybe you’d fight for me. Just once.”
He closes his eyes, exhales. “Your brother’s coming in three days.”
It takes a second for me to process it. “What?”
“Emiliano,” he says, finally looking at me again. “He’ll be here by the weekend.”
The floor tilts beneath me. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh. “You really are a coward.”
His entire body goes still, but he doesn’t argue. He just finishes his drink and sets the glass down on the desk with deliberate precision, as if that small act can hold everything else together.
“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”
He turns his back. “Go, Mara.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
He says nothing.
“I mean it,” I say, stepping closer, voice shaking. “You think pushing me away protects me, but all it does is break us. Whatever this was…” My breath hitches. “You can’t just erase it.”
He finally turns to face me. His expression is unreadable, eyes dark and steady.
“Watch me.”
That hurts more than anything else he’s ever said. Something inside me snaps.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, my voice rising. “You don’t get to pull me in, make me believe there was something real, and then decide you’re done.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even flinch.
“Say something,” I plead. “Anything. Tell me you didn’t feel it. Tell me I imagined everything.”
Silence.
My throat burns. “God, you really don’t feel anything, do you?”
Still nothing. I can’t stand it. I move toward the door, my vision blurring. My hand finds the handle, but I pause, looking back one last time.
This is a damn humiliation ritual. When will I get it through my skull?
He’s still there, standing by the window, his back to me, a shadow against the glass. He doesn’t try to stop me.
“I will never forgive you for this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move.
The door slams behind me, echoing through the hall like a shot. By the time I reach the corridor, the tears are blinding. I run, half-sobbing, half-choking on the sound. My heels click against the marble—sharp, frantic, breaking the quiet that’s settled over the Castello.
When I finally reach my room, I don’t bother with the lights. I fall against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. My chest heaves, every breath painful and shallow. The sob that escapes isn’t graceful. It’s raw, ugly, the kind that tears something open inside you.
Duchess lifts her head from the bed, blinking at me like I’m interrupting her sleep. I laugh weakly, wiping at my face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper. “I know. I’m an idiot.”
She curls back up, tail flicking once before she settles. I envy her for it. The peace, the indifference. My throat aches. My heart feels heavy enough to bruise.
I thought maybe we were getting somewhere. That his silence meant uncertainty, not indifference. That when he looked at me, it was more than lust. That it was something real. But I was wrong.
He said it was easier to push me away. And maybe, for him, it is. For me, it feels like dying slowly.
I crawl onto the bed, pulling the blanket around me like it can shield me from the truth. The storm outside has quieted, but the house still hums with its own kind of tension, like it’s waiting for something to give.
Three days. That’s all that’s left.
And the worst part is, he won’t stop me when I go. He’ll let me walk out like I was never here. Like I never mattered at all.