15. Liana
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Liana
The numbness started in my left cheek.
I was standing at Gina’s kitchen sink, washing a mug I had already washed twice, staring at nothing through the window above the faucet.
My hands were in the warm water and my mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying the look on Dominic’s face.
The numbness crept across my skin, and I pressed my fingers to my cheekbone and felt nothing.
Not now. Please, God, not now.
I gripped the edge of the counter and tried to breathe through it, tried to will it away the way I had been willing it away for months. There was too much to do.
Bianca needed me to be strong. The divorce needed me to be present. The shattered pieces of my life needed me to hold them together long enough to build something new from the wreckage.
But my body didn’t care about what I needed.
The numbness spread down my jaw and into my neck, and the light from the window turned sharp at the edges. Too bright.
“Liana?” Gina’s voice came from somewhere behind me. “You don’t look so good. Your face is really pale.”
I tried to answer her but my mouth wasn’t working right, the words coming out slurred and wrong when I managed to push them past my lips.
“Need to lie down.” I let go of the counter and the room tilted sideways. “Need to get to the bathroom before-”
I took two steps and the floor rushed up to meet me.
I don’t remember hitting the ground. I remember the cold tile against my cheek and Gina’s voice sharp with panic, calling my name over and over.
Then the pain hit, white and blinding and absolute, and there was nothing else. Just darkness. Just the relief of not having to hold myself together anymore.
The first thing I heard when I surfaced was Bianca’s voice.
“But why won’t she wake up, Papa? I’ve been waiting and waiting and she’s still sleeping.”
“Because her body needs to rest, piccola. Mama works very hard taking care of you and sometimes her body gets tired and needs extra sleep to feel better.”
“But I want her to wake up now.” Bianca’s voice wobbled. “I want to show her the picture I drew. It’s a picture of our family and I put everyone in it, even the fish we saw at the dock that one time.”
“She’s going to love it when she sees it.
” I heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of the chair, the small sounds of him shifting Bianca in his lap.
“You know what? Your mama is the strongest person I’ve ever met.
She’s stronger than Papa, stronger than anyone.
She just needs a little rest and then she’ll wake up and you can show her your picture. ”
“Promise?”
“I promise, baby girl.” His voice cracked slightly on the words. “I promise.”
I opened my eyes slowly, testing whether the light would hurt. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, only a small lamp glowing in the corner. I was in our bedroom, in our bed, the sheets pulled up to my chin and my head resting on my own pillow. The one I had left behind when I packed my suitcase.
Dominic was sitting in the armchair by the window with Bianca curled in his lap, her dark curls pressed against his chest.
He had one arm wrapped around her back and the other hand was stroking her hair.
He looked exhausted. But he was holding our daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world.
I watched them without speaking, without letting them know I was awake.
This was what I had wanted. This was what I had begged him for, all those nights I asked him to come home for dinner, to be there for bedtime, to put down his phone and look at his daughter instead of his empire. This tender, present father who held his child like nothing else mattered.
And he was only doing it now, when I was lying in a bed I didn’t want to be in, when I had already packed my bags and walked out the door, when it was too late for this softness to save us.
Bianca lifted her head from his chest and looked toward the bed, and her whole face transformed when she saw my eyes were open.
“Mama!” She scrambled off Dominic’s lap so fast she almost fell, her feet hitting the floor with a thump as she ran to the bed. “Mama, you’re awake.”
She climbed onto the bed beside me, careful not to jostle me, her small body warm against my side.
“Mama, are you still sick? Papa said you were very tired and needed to sleep for a long time. I tried to be quiet but it was really hard because I had so many things to tell you.”
“I’m feeling better now.” I smoothed her hair back from her face, my fingers catching on a tangle. “I just needed some rest.”
“That’s what Papa said.” She glanced over her shoulder at Dominic, who had risen from the chair and was standing a few feet from the bed, watching us with an expression I couldn’t read.
“He stayed with you the whole time. He didn’t even go to work.
He just sat in that chair and watched you sleep and held my hand when I got scared. ”
I looked at Dominic over Bianca’s head. He met my eyes and I saw the fear there, the grief, the desperate hope that I might have forgotten everything that happened before I collapsed. That we might somehow go back to the way things were.
We couldn’t go back. I knew that. But looking at him standing there with his rumpled shirt and his shadowed eyes, I couldn’t find the anger I needed to push him away.
“Bianca, sweetheart.” Dominic’s voice was soft as he moved closer to the bed. “Why don’t you go downstairs and ask Rina to make some of that soup Mama likes?”
“Can I bring it up to her myself?” Bianca sat up straight, her eyes bright with purpose. “I can be very careful. I won’t spill even a little bit.”
“You can carry the crackers.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Let Rina carry the soup. It’s hot and I don’t want you to burn yourself.”
“Okay, Papa.” She scrambled off the bed and paused at the door, turning back to look at me. “Don’t go back to sleep before I come back, okay Mama? I have more things to tell you. Important things.”
“I’ll stay awake.” I managed a small smile. “I promise.”
She ran out of the room, her footsteps thundering down the hallway, and then it was just Dominic and me in the dim light of the bedroom we used to share.
He moved to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. His hand reached out and touched my forehead, checking for fever, then slid down to cup my cheek in his palm.
“How do you feel?” His thumb traced along my cheekbone, gentle and careful. “The doctor said the worst should be over but you might still have some lingering pain.”
“What doctor?” My voice was rough and I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.
“Martinelli. I called him when Gina couldn’t wake you up.” He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and held it to my lips, his other hand sliding under my neck to lift my head. “Small sips. Don’t rush.”
I drank slowly, the cool water soothing my raw throat, and he watched me with an intensity that made my chest ache. When I had taken enough he set the glass aside and lowered my head back to the pillow, his fingers lingering in my hair.
“He gave you something for the pain and said you need to stay in bed for at least a day, maybe longer.” He pulled the blanket up higher on my chest, smoothing out the wrinkles with his palm. “He also said you’ve been having these migraines for a while and hiding them. Is that true?”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His hand found mine under the blanket and held it, his fingers threading through mine. “I would have helped. I would have made sure you had what you needed.”
“You weren’t here to tell. And when you were home, you were so tired and distracted that I didn’t want to add to your burdens.”
“You’re not a burden.” His grip tightened on my hand. “You’ve never been a burden. You’re my wife.”
“I don’t feel like your wife anymore.”
He brought my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “I never stopped loving you.”
When I didn’t respond to him he simply sighed.
“The doctor said stress can trigger these migraines. He asked me if there was anything going on in your life that might be causing you extreme stress.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I had been causing you extreme stress.” His voice cracked on the words.
I stared at him. Dominic Costa, who never admitted weakness to anyone, who wore his armor like a second skin, had told a doctor that he was the reason his wife was sick.
“He didn’t say anything. He just looked sorry for me.”
“Why would you-.”
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty.” He lifted my hand to his lips again and held it there, his breath warm against my skin. “I’m telling you because I need you to know that I understand. I understand what I did. I understand how badly I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Liana.”
I lay there in the dim light and let him hold my hand and tried to find the anger that had been sustaining me for months. The fury that had given me the strength to pack my bags and file those papers and walk away from the only life I had ever known.
It wasn’t there.
The migraine had burned it out of me, leaving nothing but ashes and exhaustion and a bone-deep weariness that made it hard to care about anything at all.
“I’ve been sitting in that chair for hours, watching you sleep.
” He gestured toward the armchair by the window with his free hand.
“And I kept thinking about all the nights I wasn’t here.
All the mornings I left before you woke up.
All the times you needed me and I was somewhere else, doing something that felt important at the time but doesn’t matter at all now. ”
“What matters now?”
“You.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Bianca. This family. Everything I was too blind to see when I still had it.”
He reached for the cloth on the nightstand and dipped it in the bowl of water beside it, wringing it out before pressing it gently to my forehead. The coolness seeped into my skin and I closed my eyes, letting myself feel the relief of it.
His fingers found the spot at the base of my skull and pressed gently, and I felt some of the lingering tension release. He had always been good with his hands. Good at fixing things, at taking care of problems, at making pain go away.
“I’ve got you.” He moved the cloth to the back of my neck and held it there. “I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what you need.”
“You.” The word slipped out before I could stop it, raw and honest and terrible in its truth.
His hand stilled on my neck. I hated myself for saying it. For admitting that even now, even after everything, he was still what I wanted.
“And I can’t have you.” I turned my face away from him, pressing my cheek into the pillow. “So it doesn’t count.”
“You can have me.” He lay down on the bed beside me, careful not to jostle me, his body warm and solid at my side. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know I don’t deserve another chance.” His voice was low. “I know I’ve used up every bit of grace you had to give. But I’m asking anyway, Liana. I’m begging you.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m begging you to let me try again.” He pressed his lips to my temple, and I felt the dampness there, the tears he was fighting to hold back.
“I’ll fire Angela tonight. I’ll call her right now and tell her she’s done.
I’ll step back from the business, bring in someone else to handle the day-to-day.
I’ll be here every morning when you wake up and every night when you go to sleep. ”
“You can’t change who you are.”
“I can try.” His hand trembled in my hair. “For you, I can try. For Bianca, I can try. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you want. Just please don’t give up on me yet.”
It wasn’t enough.
It couldn’t be enough.
Too much had happened, too much damage had been done, too many promises had been broken for me to believe that this time would be different.
But I was too exhausted to fight him.
“I believe you’re sorry.” I reached up and touched his face, felt the stubble rough under my palm. “I even believe you love me, in the broken way you know how.”
“Liana.”
“But you love me when you’ve got a spare minute.” I traced the line of his jaw, memorizing the shape of it. “You love me when the business is quiet and the war is won and there’s nothing else demanding your attention. You love me in the spaces between everything that matters more.”
“Nothing matters more than you.”
“That’s not true. The power matters more. Being the man everyone fears matters more. I’ve always known that. I just thought I could learn to live with it.”
“You shouldn’t have to live with it.”
“No.” I pressed his hand to my lips, kissed his palm, then set it on the bed between us. “I shouldn’t. That’s why I’m leaving.”
“Liana, please.”
“Please, Dominic. I’m begging you the way you begged me. Let me go.”
His hand lay on the bed where I had placed it, and he didn’t move to pick it up.
His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in the darkness, and I could see him struggling to find words that wouldn’t come.
I waited.
The seconds stretched out, each one heavier than the last, and he didn’t answer.
I was too tired to be afraid of what his silence meant.
I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion pull me back toward sleep, and the last thing I felt was his hand moving, reaching for mine, his fingers threading through mine and holding on like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t have the strength.