Chapter 3
Rosália
Saturday morning broke over the city in a wash of pale, icy blue, slipping through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains.
Rosália woke by degrees, her mind still tethered to the fuzzy edges of a dream. With her eyes still closed, she turned onto her side, her hand instinctively sweeping across the vast expanse of the king-sized mattress, seeking the heavy, familiar warmth of her husband.
Her fingers brushed against smooth, perfectly flat cotton.
She blinked her eyes open, the grogginess instantly evaporating. The bed wasn’t just empty; the sheets on David’s side were ice cold. They hadn’t held a body in hours.
Pushing herself up against the velvet headboard, Rosália frowned into the dim room.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed with a harsh red light: 6:43 AM.
David was a notoriously late sleeper on the weekends, fiercely guarding his Saturdays after grueling eighty-hour work weeks.
For him to be out of bed, let alone out of the room, before the sun had fully risen was entirely out of character.
A quiet, creeping sense of unease bloomed in her chest. Slipping out from under the heavy silk duvet, she wrapped herself in a thick cashmere robe and padded barefoot down the silent, carpeted hallway.
The house felt cavernous. It was a stifling, absolute quiet that made the sound of her own pulse beat loudly in her ears.
She checked his home office—dark. The living room—empty.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the chill of the marble floor seeped into the soles of her feet.
She turned on the soft under-cabinet lights and went through the mechanical motions of making coffee.
The harsh, grinding whir of the espresso machine violently shattered the morning silence.
She leaned against the counter, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. Maybe he couldn’t sleep, she reasoned, watching the dark liquid pull into her porcelain cup. Maybe he went for a run?
Just as she lifted the mug, letting the bitter steam wash over her face, the heavy deadbolt on the kitchen door clicked. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet house.
The door swung open, and David stepped inside.
The moment his eyes landed on her standing by the kitchen island, he froze completely.
His hand gripped the doorknob with white-knuckled force, his eyes blowing wide in a flash of pure, unadulterated panic.
For a split second, he looked like a man who had just stepped off a ledge—terrified, cornered, and entirely caught off guard.
“David?” Rosália asked, her voice soft but laced with confusion. She lowered her mug. “You startled me.”
He blinked. The sheer terror vanished from his features so quickly she wondered if the morning shadows had played a trick on her.
A smooth, practiced smile slid over his face as he pushed the door shut, locking it behind him.
He was dressed in his sleek, black athletic gear, a light sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Rose,” he breathed out, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted the last block. “You’re up early. What are you doing in the kitchen?”
“I woke up and you weren’t in bed,” she said, wrapping both hands around her warm mug to ground herself. “I ended up losing sleep. Where did you go?”
“I... I couldn’t turn my brain off,” he said quickly, walking straight to the sink and turning on the faucet.
He didn’t look at her, focusing entirely on filling a glass of water.
“The Vanguard merger is spinning in my head. I needed to burn off some of the adrenaline, so I got up and went running.”
Rosália watched him drink. Even disheveled and out of breath, he was undeniably beautiful.
The dark, fitted athletic shirt clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, and the morning light caught the sharp angle of his jaw.
The phantom panic from a moment ago dissolved into a rush of deep, familiar longing.
They had been so disconnected lately, so fractured by the tension of their careers.
She just wanted to bridge the agonizing gap between them.
She set her coffee down, untying the belt of her robe slightly, and closed the distance between them.
“You’re working too hard,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the damp, dark hair at the nape of his neck.
She stepped into his space, tilting her chin up, fully intending to press her lips to his.
Let’s go back upstairs, she wanted to say.
Let’s just stay in bed and forget the world.
David flinched.
It was a sharp, visceral movement. He stepped back so quickly that her hand fell uselessly into the empty air between them. He turned his shoulder, creating a physical barrier.
“I’m completely gross, Rose,” he said, his voice clipped as he backed toward the hallway. He offered an apologetic, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I need a shower. I smell like the pavement. Let me clean up, and we’ll have breakfast together, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered, her arm dropping heavily to her side.
He was already gone, his footsteps taking the stairs two at a time.
Rosália stood entirely alone in the massive kitchen, the physical sting of his rejection blossoming hot and heavy in her chest. It felt like a slap.
She closed her eyes, swallowing the thick, painful lump in her throat.
It’s just sweat, she told herself firmly, gripping the edge of the marble counter until her fingers ached.
He’s just stressed. Don’t make it something it’s not.
By eight o’clock that evening, the morning’s sharp ache had been meticulously painted over with the glossy veneer of a perfect date night.
To Rosália’s absolute surprise, David had emerged from his shower and told her to wear something nice. He had managed to secure a last-minute table at Le Petit Verdot, a dimly lit, impossibly exclusive French restaurant they hadn’t visited since their fifth anniversary.
Now, surrounded by the glow of crystal chandeliers, the clinking of heavy silver, and the low, elegant murmur of the city’s elite, Rosália felt a fragile, desperate spark of hope.
She wore a deep emerald silk dress that draped elegantly across her collarbones, a dark red lip, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like they were actually a couple playing on the same team.
“I was so surprised when you said we were coming here,” Rosália said, tracing the rim of her wine glass. She smiled across the candlelit table, practically drinking in the sight of him in his tailored suit. “We barely go out, just the two of us, anymore. I’m really happy, David.”
“You deserve it,” he said, offering a charming smile. But as he spoke, his eyes drifted over her shoulder. His gaze tracked upward, fixing intensely on the mezzanine level of the restaurant—a cordoned-off, VIP area draped in heavy velvet curtains.
Rosália tried to ignore the distraction, fighting to keep his attention.
“I had a massive breakthrough at the gallery yesterday,” she continued, leaning forward, her voice animated with genuine passion.
“Mateo, that brilliant abstract artist I’ve been courting for six months?
He finally agreed to do an exclusive exhibition with Lumen.
It’s going to be a huge draw for the fall season. I was thinking of—”
David nodded, taking a slow sip of his wine, but his eyes were completely glazed over. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t even pretending to listen. His gaze flicked obsessively back to the top floor, his jaw ticking with a heavy, hidden tension.
Rosália’s voice trailed off.
The silence hung between them, thick and humiliating.
Her shoulders slumped, the fragile hope in her chest shattering into dust. The familiar, crushing weight of invisibility settled back into her bones.
She looked down at her lap, suddenly feeling entirely foolish in her expensive silk dress.
She was pouring her heart out to a wall.
As if suddenly sensing the devastating drop in her energy, David snapped his attention back to her.
A flash of guilt crossed his features. He reached frantically across the white linen tablecloth, catching her hand and lacing his warm fingers tightly through hers.
He lifted her knuckles to his lips, pressing a lingering, desperate kiss against her skin.
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m just so distracted by how beautiful you look tonight,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic cadence that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago. “That dress is stunning on you. I really am a lucky man.”
Rosália’s breath hitched. Despite the hurt, her traitorous heart gave a sudden, excited race. The genuine heat in his eyes and the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers felt like a lifeline. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him how much she loved him, how much she missed him—
“Good evening.”
The voice sliced through the intimate moment like a heavy blade. It was deep, thick, and resonated with a rough, commanding timber that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Rosália felt an involuntary shiver race down her spine. She turned her head.
Standing beside their table was Sean.
He looked utterly, terrifyingly devastating.
He wore a bespoke midnight-blue suit, the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, stripping away the billionaire-boardroom formality and leaving pure, intimidating masculinity in its place.
The dim, flickering candlelight caught the silver threading through his dark hair, making his sharp, handsome features look almost feral.
Clinging to his arm was Katherine, looking vibrant and entirely out of place in a tight, sparkling gold dress, her blonde hair falling in perfect, bouncy waves.
“Sean. Katherine,” Rosália breathed, recovering her composure. She subtly pulled her hand out of David’s grasp, acutely aware of how suffocatingly small the restaurant suddenly felt. “What a surprise.”
“We were just at a dinner with some old friends of mine who are visiting town,” Sean said, his dark, heavy eyes fixed entirely on Rosália. The intensity of his stare felt like a physical weight against her skin. “We were just leaving.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Rosália said politely.
David cleared his throat, his posture going utterly rigid. He looked as though he had swallowed glass. He barely glanced at the young woman hanging on Sean’s arm. “Katherine,” he clipped out, his tone entirely dismissive and freezing cold.
Katherine flinched slightly. Her eyes darted nervously to David for a fraction of a second before she immediately focused all her bright, frantic energy on Rosália.
“Hi Rosália!” Katherine chirped, her voice a little too loud for the intimate setting. “You look absolutely stunning tonight. Oh, we just finished eating—you absolutely have to try the dark chocolate fondant, it’s life-changing!”
As Katherine babbled to Rosália about the dessert menu, David deliberately picked up his wine glass. He looked away, staring a hole into the opposite wall, completely ignoring the younger woman as if she were entirely beneath his notice.
Rosália, ever the empathetic diplomat, couldn’t stand her husband’s blatant snobbery.
Under the cover of Katherine’s nervous chatter, Rosália shot David a pointed, scolding look.
She gently shook her head, silently pleading with him to stop being so unsympathetic.
Katherine was a sweet, harmless neighbor, and David was acting like she didn’t even exist.
David refused to meet her eye, a muscle feathering violently in his jaw.
But Sean caught the silent reprimand between husband and wife.
One of his dark eyebrows arched slowly in genuine amusement. His eyes met Rosália’s, dark, heavy, and knowing.
When Katherine finally turned back, tugging gently on Sean’s arm to pull him toward the exit, they exchanged their formal goodbyes.
Before Sean could completely step away, Rosália leaned in just a fraction, lowering her voice so only he could hear over the din of the restaurant, feeling the need to apologize for her husband’s icy behavior.
“David you need to stop being so rude to her,” she murmured gently “One day, people are going to notice how badly you treat her.”
He gave a slow, careless shrug of his broad shoulders, a devastating smirk playing on his lips.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He held her gaze and Rosália just shook her head.