31. Allie
Allie
It’s just after ten when I walk into the house.
I assume Rico’s either still at the office or barricaded in his little coding cave, probably muttering sweet nothings to his six-monitor setup.
It’s why I don’t bother looking for him.
The man stashes himself away for a reason and I’m not about to go begging for attention.
The house is dark—shades drawn tight, blinds shut like Fort Knox. I left them open this morning on purpose, and the vampire-in-residence clearly couldn’t handle the sunlight. Sure, I’m poking the bear, but I refuse to live in perpetual gloom. My life’s dark enough without my home mimicking a crypt.
Besides, the sunshine is my only proof that my husband isn’t one garlic clove away from bursting into flames.
I forget to close the blinds at night. Forget, as in, intentionally leave them gaping like a stage curtain, begging for a reaction.
I’d trade my left kidney for the smallest flicker of emotion from Rico.
A sigh, a grunt, maybe even one of those soul-draining glares that shouldn’t be, and yet they are, very attractive.
Can you blame me? A girl’s gotta push a few buttons to make sure her husband isn’t as emotionally advanced as a rock collection.
Nonna, Mama, and Violet’s words churn in my head, drowning in the three—okay, fine, four—glasses of wine I downed after dinner.
Liquid courage, they call it. I call it the only way I’m brave enough to do something incredibly stupid: confront my husband and tell him I’m adjusting the terms of our agreement.
You know, the legally binding contract we negotiated like opposing world leaders, complete with glaring, pen-clicking, and Rico looking at me like I was an underperforming lab rat.
Dare I poke the beast? Demand a revision like I’m updating terms and conditions?
My brain replays our original negotiation.
I slipped in requests, one by one, like sneaking vegetables into a toddler’s mac and cheese.
He agreed begrudgingly, each nod tighter than the set of his jaw.
A win? Technically. But the man looked at me the entire time like he was debating whether it was worth the paperwork to have me assassinated.
Tossing my purse and keys onto the entryway table, I murmur a quick goodnight to Vinnie as he heads down the basement stairs.
There’s no point in seeking out Rico. If he’s home, he doesn’t want to be found, and I’ve officially retired from the search party.
I get it, some things can't be rushed, like building Rome.
They placed at least one stone daily while building Rome.
Meanwhile, every stone I set with this man gets kicked over and hurled into the Hudson.
Slowly trudging up the stairs, I curse Rico under my breath.
My floor. My room. My entire domain. The nursery’s up here too, which means when I pop out these supposed heirs—because God forbid we stop at one—I’ll be the one on night duty.
Diaper changes? Me. Midnight feedings? Also me.
Bleary-eyed at two in the morning while my darling husband slumbers away in his soundproof man cave like a king oblivious to the kingdom burning around him.
Honestly, the man could sleep through a nuclear detonation at his desk. A crying baby doesn’t stand a chance of penetrating those walls. And to think, people call me the lucky one.
I’m almost giddy I didn’t tell him I was ovulating. Should I feel bad about that? Probably. Do I? Not even a little.
Sure, my body’s basically been stuck on smolder mode for days. Hell, at this point, he could breathe near me and I’d go poof. But do I want the orgasm he could undoubtedly deliver? Desperately. Do I want the regret-filled stare he’d slap on afterward like a participation trophy? Not so much.
Pathetic doesn’t even cover it. I’m one flirt away from snapping at the bait like a starving trout, fully aware the hook will gut me, but too desperate to care.
I push into my room; the darkness swallowing me whole as I sigh and kick the door shut behind me.
Clothes? Gone. Jeans peeled off and flung into a pile that would give Rico hives.
Shirt? Tossed. Not even trying for the laundry basket.
He doesn’t come in here, anyway. It’s not like I’m trying to piss him off.
I’m just tired—emotionally, mentally, physically.
Cooking nights drain the life out of me, and I’m running on fumes.
What else do I even have to do?
My days are a rinse-and-repeat cycle of cleaning, grocery shopping, meal planning, and cooking.
Sometimes Violet and Sienna rescue me with coffee dates or lunch outings, but Violet’s drowning in deadlines for her next book, and Sienna has her hands full with twin girls and a husband who looks at her like she cured cancer.
Jealousy? Oh, it’s there. A big, ugly, green monster doing backflips in my chest every time I watch Violet and Sienna get wrapped up in hugs, kisses, and whispered sweet nothings from their husbands.
I don’t need worship. I’d settle for acknowledgment.
A nod. A hey, nice job not burning the house down today would suffice.
But no. My husband, the High Lord of Indifference, prefers silence. Everything about him screams order and control. He’s basically interior-designed his home to match his personality: sleek, cold, and emotionally nonexistent.
Well, until I got my hands on it. Still, the house is more barren than I like, and no matter what decorative piece I add, it doesn’t feel like a home. With nothing but time on my hands, cleanings become my full-time job. It seems I'm in the 1950s and taking on the role of the housewife well.
My laundry’s always done, not that Rico would notice.
He refuses to let me near his clothes. Locks his bedroom door like I’m some master thief plotting to steal his underwear.
It’s laughable, really. Like I’d willingly walk into his space, the forbidden Sanctum of Solitude, just to unfold his perfectly starched shirts.
Okay, yes, I'd do that, but not steal his underwear. Just so we are clear.
But the locked doors? They hit differently.
They’re not just doors—they’re reminders.
Of Papa’s house. Of the life I clawed my way out of.
And now I’m back to being the girl standing in a home that isn’t hers, shut out of rooms she’s supposedly entitled to.
The house might have my touch now—flowers, throw pillows, candles—but it’s not mine.
I’m not a wife. I’m a roommate with kitchen privileges and a shared womb. That’s all Rico wants from me. His heir factory. A walking, talking incubator with a side of home-cooked meals.
The worst part? I signed up for it. Willingly.
Still jobless, aimless, and apparently husbandless—at least in the emotional availability department.
Tomorrow’s plan? Get up at an ungodly hour, hopefully catch Rico during his habitual crack-of-dawn escape, and ambush him into our agreed upon morning talk with a side of "so, I was thinking about our agreement…
" Because nothing screams marital bliss like holding your husband hostage for conversation before sunrise.
Of course, that would require enough caffeine to resuscitate a corpse and the ability to navigate a looming wine hangover. But hey, I thrive under pressure. Or at least, I used to. Lately, I’m more whimpering under mild inconvenience than thriving.
But the real plan? Get my husband to think with his other brain. The one that doesn’t operate like a NASA control center running diagnostics 24/7. Just pure, primal caveman instincts. Basically, Little Rico—I still can't decide if that phrase should make me laugh or seek trauma therapists.
Not tonight, though. Even with liquid courage still buzzing faintly in my veins, I didn’t have enough chutzpah to pick that fight. Since when did I become such a chicken? My younger self would be horrified at what I’ve become.
In the bathroom, I scrub off my makeup—the one perk of my current existence: no need for the industrial-strength cleanser required to melt off the daily armor I used to wear.
Dressed in silk shorts and a matching cami—because if my life was falling apart, I’d at least look good doing it—I padded back into my room, only to screech like a horror movie extra at the shadow lounging on my bed.
My back slammed into the wall with a thud, and I winced, hand fumbling until it found the light switch. The room flooded with harsh yellow light, revealing none other than my adoring husband, casually stretched across my mattress.
Gray T-shirt. Black sweats. Phone in hand, thumb lazily tapping the screen like he was coding the downfall of civilization. Maybe he had an app for that.
“Rico!” I smoothed down my cami, pushing off the wall. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
My room. If we were playing the separate spaces game, I was claiming this entire floor. Hell, I might get petty enough to slap a “No Boys Allowed” sign on the door.
He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he tossed the phone onto the bed, rose with the grace of a predator—and stalked toward me.
Amber eyes dragged over every inch of my body, starting at my bare legs, pausing at the hem of my shorts, and crawling upward until they landed squarely on my chest. My nipples, the traitorous bastards, stood at full attention, practically waving hello.
Rico’s gaze sharpened, his mouth curving into the slightest smirk. Not a full smile, because God forbid he actually enjoys life, but enough to tell me he’d noticed exactly how much my body appreciated his proximity.
For the record? It enjoyed it a lot.
“What’s today?” Rico’s voice is low and miles away from sensual. Instead, it’s more cross-examining than anything. His fists clench and unclench. He’s irritated.
Ah, anger. An emotion. Actual, human emotion. Progress.
“Wednesday?” I answer, brows lifting in question.
“And?”