Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Antonella
Something wakes me.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
Just a feeling.
That prickling awareness at the back of my neck. The sense that I'm not alone.
I open my eyes.
A scream tears from my throat.
Bruno sits in his wheelchair in front of me. Watching me. In the dark.
"What the—"
His hand clamps over my mouth.
I bite down. Hard.
"Fuck!" He yanks his hand back.
I scramble upright, heart pounding against my ribs. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Bruno examines his hand.
"You bit me."
"You were watching me sleep!" I grab the pillow and clutch it to my chest. "Like some kind of—of—"
"I knocked."
"I was asleep!"
"I noticed."
My pulse refuses to slow down. I stare at him, trying to make sense of this. Bruno Sartori. In my bedroom. At—I glance at the clock on the nightstand—two in the morning.
"Get out."
He doesn't move.
"Bruno. Get out of my room."
"My mother is coming tomorrow."
I blink.
"What?"
"My mother." He says it slowly, like I'm the one being unreasonable. "Aria Sartori. She's arriving tomorrow morning."
I wait for more.
Nothing comes.
"And you needed to tell me this at two in the morning? While I was sleeping?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"So you decided I shouldn't either?"
His jaw tightens. "I needed to talk to you."
"There's this thing called waiting until morning. Normal people do it."
"I'm not normal people."
No. He's definitely not.
I push my hair out of my face. Take a breath. Try to calm my racing heart.
Bruno sits there in the darkness, his face half-shadowed. He's wearing a black t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair is disheveled. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
"Fine," I say. "Your mother is coming. Why does that require breaking into my room?"
"I didn't break in. The door was unlocked."
"That's not the point."
"The point is that my mother will expect certain things."
I wait.
Bruno's hands grip the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles go white.
"She knows our marriage is arranged," he says. "She's not stupid. But she's also a woman who prefers to... close her eyes to certain realities."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning she'll want to believe we're in love. Or at least on our way there." His voice drops. "She'll want to see us acting like a real couple. Not like strangers who happen to share a last name."
I think about the past week. Bruno avoiding me at every turn. The silent meals. The way he looks through me like I'm not even there.
"That might be difficult," I say. "Considering you've barely spoken to me since the party."
Something flickers across his face.
"I know."
"You've been avoiding me."
"Yes."
At least he admits it.
"Why?"
He doesn't answer.
The silence stretches between us. I can hear my own breathing. The distant hum of the house settling around us.
"What do you want from me, Bruno?"
He looks up. Meets my eyes.
"I want you to be like that night."
"What night?"
"The party." His voice is rough. "When you... when you helped me. With the guests."
"You want me to pretend we're close," I say.
"I want you to act like you did then. Like you actually give a damn."
"I do give a damn."
The words come out before I can stop them.
Bruno goes still.
"We're stuck together," I continue. "Whether either of us wanted this or not. And I don't—I'm not the kind of person who can just turn that off. Pretend someone doesn't exist."
"I've noticed."
"Then why have you been avoiding me?"
Again, no answer.
I'm tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of trying to read a man who gives nothing away. Tired of feeling like a ghost in my own marriage.
"Your mother," I say. "What exactly does she need to see?"
Bruno's grip on the armrests loosens slightly. "She needs to see us together. Talking. Acting like we actually know each other."
"We don't know each other."
"Then we'll pretend."
"Like we did at the party."
"Yes."
I consider this.
"And after she leaves? We go back to you ignoring me?"
Something shifts in his expression. A crack in the mask.
"I don't know," he says quietly.
I pull my knees up to my chest. Wrap my arms around them.
"What time does she arrive?"
"Ten."
"And you're telling me this now because...?"
"Because I couldn't—" He stops. Starts again. "Because I needed to warn you. And I didn't know how to do it during the day. When everyone's watching."
"So you snuck into my room like a creep."
"I didn't sneak. I wheeled."
Is that... a joke?
I stare at him.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. Almost imperceptible.
But I see it.
"That's not funny," I say.
"It's a little funny."
"It's really not."
But I'm fighting a smile now.
I glance at the clock. 2:17 AM.
"Well," I say. "I'm not going back to sleep now."
Bruno frowns. "What?"
"I was having a perfectly good dream about being anywhere but here, and now I'm wide awake."
"That's not my problem."
"You made it your problem when you wheeled into my room like some kind of nocturnal stalker."
His jaw tightens. "I told you. I knocked."
"And then you sat there. Watching me sleep." I shake my head. "That's creepy, Bruno. That's objectively creepy behavior."
"I was waiting for you to wake up."
"By staring at me?"
"What was I supposed to do? Shake you?"
"Leave. Come back in the morning. Like a normal person."
"We've established I'm not normal."
I let out a breath. Push the covers aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
Bruno's eyes drop to my bare legs.
I'm wearing shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Nothing scandalous. But the way he looks at me—
He jerks his gaze away. Stares at the wall like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"So," I say. "You woke me up. You're not leaving. That means you need to entertain me."
"What?"
"Entertain me. Keep me company. Make up for ruining my sleep."
"I don't... entertain."
"Everyone entertains. It's called being a person."
"I don't entertain myself," he says slowly. "Let alone someone else."
"What do you do at two in the morning when you can't sleep?"
He doesn't answer.
"Bruno."
"I sit," he says finally. "I think. I... exist."
"That sounds miserable."
"It is."
The honesty catches me off guard.
I study him in the dim light. The shadows under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands never quite relax on those armrests.
"How long has it been since you slept through the night?"
"I don't remember."
"Weeks? Months?"
"I said I don't remember."
Which means it's been a long time.
I stand up. Walk to the window. Pull back the curtain.
"When I can't sleep," I say, "I make lists."
"Lists."
"Things I need to do. Things I'm worried about. Things I'm grateful for." I turn back to face him. "It helps get the thoughts out of my head."
"I don't make lists."
"What do you do with all the thoughts?"
"I told you. I sit with them."
I cross my arms. Lean against the windowsill.
"Okay. New plan. We're going to talk."
"We are talking."
"No, we're arguing." I tilt my head. "Tell me something about yourself."
Bruno's expression closes off. "Like what?"
"Anything. Your favorite color. Your favorite food. What you wanted to be when you grew up."
"This isn't a first date."
"No, it's even worse. A marriage. Which means we should probably know basic things about each other before your mother arrives and expects us to act like we're in love."
He has no response to that.
I wait.
The clock ticks. 2:23 AM.
"Blue," Bruno says finally.
"What?"
"My favorite color. Blue."
It's such a small thing. Such a simple answer. But it feels like a victory.
"What kind of blue?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He sighs. "Dark blue. Like the sky just before it goes completely black."
I file that away. Dark blue. The edge of night.
"My turn," I say. "Green. Like the leaves in summer when the sun shines through them."
Bruno watches me. Says nothing.
"Your turn again," I prompt.
"I didn't agree to take turns."
"You're doing it anyway. Favorite food."
A long pause.
"My mother's lasagna," he says. "She makes it with fresh pasta. Takes her all day."
"That sounds amazing."
"It is."
"Mine is my grandmother's tiramisu. She taught my mother the recipe, and my mother taught me." My throat tightens. "I haven't made it since she died."
Bruno's eyes flicker to my face.
"Your mother?"
"Two years ago. Cancer."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"I'm sorry," Bruno says.
It sounds genuine.
"Thank you."
More silence. But it's softer now. Less like a wall and more like a bridge.
"What did you want to be?" I ask. "When you were a kid?"
Bruno's hands tighten on the armrests.
"I wanted to be a pilot," he says.
I blink.
"A pilot?"
"When I was seven. I wanted to fly planes." His voice is flat. Distant. "My father took me to an airshow. I watched the jets cut across the sky and I thought... that's freedom. That's what it looks like."
I look at him having nothing to say.
"What about you?" Bruno asks. "What did you want to be?"
"I wanted to own a bakery."
His eyebrows rise slightly.
"A bakery?"
"My grandmother's bakery. In the old neighborhood." I smile at the memory. "She used to let me help her on Saturday mornings. Rolling dough. Decorating cookies. The whole place smelled like sugar and butter."
"What happened to it?"
"She sold it when she got sick. The new owners turned it into a laundromat." I shrug. "I was going to study business. Open my own place someday. But then my mother got sick, and my father started gambling, and..."
"And you became what your family needed you to be."
I look at him.
He looks back.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Bruno
She's sitting on the edge of the bed now. Legs crossed. Hair falling over one shoulder in messy waves.
The moonlight catches the gold in her blonde strands.
I can't stop looking at her.
"Bruno?"
I blink. "What?"
"You disappeared for a second."
"I'm right here."
"Physically, yes. But your mind went somewhere else."
She's too observant. Sees too much. It should annoy me.
It doesn't.
"I was thinking," I say.
"About what?"