Chapter 20
Saint
Three days.
It's been three days since I brought Gemma to Adrian. Since I made the hard choice to protect the family.
She hasn't spoken more than a few words since.
They are mostly grunts and sighs in response to questions that I pose.
I tell myself that it's fine. She's processing what happened. Once she realizes this was necessary, that it kept us safe, she'll understand.
It's just like when we first married.
She'll come to understand. She has to.
It doesn't help that I have been stuck in meetings nonstop. The transition has not been as smooth as I wish, and I've been dealing with fire after fire, none of which involve my wife.
Until now. I've managed to get away for thirty minutes, and I'm going to check on Gemma.
I find her in the bedroom, staring out the window. She's wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Her hair is unwashed, and the bruise on her face is stark and dark.
The sight of it makes me want to kill her fucking brother, and then, put my head through a woodchipper.
I should never have let the situation get this bad, and I can't blame her for being angry at me.
"Gemma." I keep my voice gentle. "We should talk."
She doesn't turn. "Okay." Her voice is soft, and I glance at her neck. There are purple bruises forming, and I close my eyes as I try to gain control.
"About what happened. With Adrian." I move closer, hesitantly, as though she's a wild animal. "I know you're angry—"
"I'm not angry." She still hasn't moved to look at me, and I don't like it. I can't see her face fully. I can't tell whether she's telling me the truth or not.
Her words should be a relief. Instead, they make my stomach clench in worry. Gemma is not the type to hold her feelings inside, at least, not as long as we have been married. And yet, she is sitting her, acting like she is unbothered.
"You're not?"
"No." Her voice is flat and empty. "I'm not anything."
I come around to face her, tired of not being able to see her fully.
I study her, and though she looks like Gemma, she's missing something.
Her eyes, which have always held so much fire and made me think of liquid steel, are dead.
Lifeless.
"It's done now," I say. "The threat is neutralized. Adrian knows. Alexei has no leverage. We can move forward." I reach for her. She lets me take her into my arms. "We can start fresh. Try for a baby with no pressure."
She looks at me, but it's like she's not processing the information.
"Okay."
"Gemma—"
"You're right. We can start fresh." She turns back to the window, pulling out of my embrace. She wraps her arms around her body. "Was there anything else?"
This isn't how this was supposed to go.
She's supposed to be angry. Yelling. Fighting. Trying to fucking gouge my eyes out. I can handle angry Gemma. I know what to do with her rage.
This hollow version? I don't know what to do with this, and I don't fucking like it.
"Lyla made breakfast—"
She interrupts me.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat." I brace myself for an argument. Instead, she sighs.
"Okay."
She doesn't move from her spot at the window, and I stand there, uncertain of what to do next. This feels wrong. All of it is fucking wrong.
"I have meetings today," I tell her. "But tonight, we'll have dinner together. Just us." I move toward the door. "Get some rest. Shower. Take care of yourself."
"Okay."
I leave, telling myself it's fine. It's only been three days. Of course she's still processing.
This is normal.
By tonight, things will be better.
And we can start moving forward.
They're not better that night.
Dinner is silent. I try to start conversations. Ask about her day. Tell her about mine.
She responds with one-word answers and pushes food around her plate. She's dressed and showered. Technically, she did what I asked, and yet, it's like she's not even here, and I fucking hate it.
I'm frustrated, and I feel helpless, which is new for me.
"You're not eating," I observe.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat, Gemma. You're getting too thin."
She takes a bite. Chews mechanically. Swallows. Her face shows nothing.
I had Lyla make her favorite meal, and yet, it's like she couldn't care less.
I'm watching a doll move—it's eerie.
"Marcello asked about you today," I try. "Wants to know if you're settling back in."
"That's nice."
"I told him you're fine. You are fine, right?"
"Yes."
Her eyes are glassy, out of focus.
"Gemma." I reach across the table for her hand. She doesn't pull away. Doesn't react at all. Her hand feels like ice. "Talk to me."
"What would you like me to say?"
"Anything. Yell at me. Tell me you hate me. Tell me I'm a bastard for what I did." My fingers tighten on hers. "Just give me something."
She looks at our joined hands. Then at me.
"You did what you thought was necessary. For the family. I understand."
The words are right, but the delivery is dead. She is parroting what I said, not saying what she actually thinks.
"You understand? Really?"
"Yes. The family comes first. You had to protect them. I was a threat. You neutralized the threat." Her voice is robotic. "It makes sense."
"Then why do you sound like—" I stop myself, closing my eyes. I'm not even sure what to say anymore.
"Like what?"
Like you're dead.
"Never mind." I release her hand. "Finish your dinner," I order. I expect her to fight against me, like she normally would. Instead, she takes another mechanical bite.
I watch her. Really watch her.
This isn't the woman I married. Isn't the woman who fought me at every turn. Who looked at me with fire in her eyes even when I pushed her away.
This is a shell.
A ghost wearing Gemma's face.
And I put her there.
That night, I try to touch her.
Not because I want sex, but because I need to prove to myself that she's still in there somewhere. That I didn't completely destroy her, which is what I'm worried about.
"Gemma." I slide into bed beside her. She's already in her nightgown, facing away from me. "Look at me."
She turns to face me with empty eyes. I fucking hate the look.
"I want you," It's only a partial lie. I don't want this fucking version of her. This hollowed out shell. I want my wife. Badly. It's a long time since we've fucked, and I crave her. I don't know when this happened, but I don't care to push her away any longer. "Let me—"
"Okay."
She turns, laying back slightly, parting her legs slightly.
It reminds me of what she was like in the beginning of our marriage.
Only, this is worse. Before, there was resistance, anger, and defiance. Now, there's nothing.
"Gemma—" I stop, pulling back slightly. "I want you to want this too."
"I'm your wife. You can do whatever you want." She looks at me, her silver eyes cold.
The words are acid in my chest.
"I'm not going to just fuck you," I tell her. I'm getting frustrated. Why is she playing the victim here? Why is she acting like she didn't cause this?
"You've always used me. This is what I'm for, right? To give you an heir. To be useful. To serve the family. It's always about the family."
Her words are cold, but they lack malice. She's not trying to fight me. She truly think I see her this way.
"No—"
"It's okay, Saint." She reaches down, pulls her nightgown up, past her thighs. "This is all we have."
I stare at her. At this woman who used to fight me. Who used to bite my lip when I kissed her. Who used to come apart in my arms and curse my name and make me feel alive.
I pull her nightgown back down. "I'm tired. Go to sleep, Gemma."
She nods and turns back over.
I lie there in the dark, listening to her breathing.
Even and steady.
Like she's not affected at all.
Like I'm not there.
Is she even here?
I'm honestly not fucking sure.
Day five.
She's getting thinner. She's losing weight she can't afford to shed. The clothes hang off her frame. Her collarbone is too prominent, and her hip bones are too sharp.
"Lyla says you're not eating."
"I eat."
"Not enough."
"I'm not hungry," she shrugs. "I can't force it."
We're in the dining room. Breakfast is spread out around us, and I fill her plate with all her normal favorites.
"Gemma, you need to—"
"I'm fine." She takes a sip of water, not even coffee, the one thing she always had, reliably. "Was there something else?"
I want to shake her. Want to make her react. Want to see anything other than this empty compliance, but I'm genuinely scared that if I touch her, she'll shatter.
"Yes. Actually." I lean forward. "I've been thinking. About what happened with Adrian."
No reaction, and I have to press myself to push forward. This is fucking insane.
"I need you to understand, I did this for us.
To keep us safe. Alexei had leverage. If he'd gone to Adrian first, the consequences would have been much worse.
" I'm talking faster now, needing her to understand.
"I controlled the narrative. Protected you.
Yes, Adrian was angry, but he didn't kill you.
He didn't invoke the contract. We survived it. "
"I understand."
"We can move forward now—together, really together. No more secrets. No more betrayals on either side. Just us. I know you are upset, but Adrian will get over it. He's being a child—"
"Okay."
I'm beginning to hate that word. Hate how easily it falls from her lips. How little it means.
"Gemma—"
"I heard you." She meets my eyes. "You did what you had to do. For the family. I understand. Can I be excused?"
"You haven't eaten enough."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat anyway."
She looks at the food. Then back at me.
"Is that an order?"
The question stabs through me. Fuck.
"No. It's not a fucking order. I'm fucking worried about you," I yell. I slam my hands on the table causing the water glasses to tumble.
She doesn't even flinch.
"Don't be." She stands. "I'm fine. I'll be in our room if you need me."
She leaves.
I sit there, staring at her untouched plate.
Something is very, very wrong.
Day seven.