21. Caelia
The loud ringtoneof my phone shatters the silence in the waiting room. I have been waiting for Cosima to finish or for the knot in my stomach to consume me—whichever happens first. I initially ignored Mattia’s call, but he persisted, ringing four more times. I’m so weak that by the fifth, I give in and answer his call, having no desire to face hell when I get home.
“What the fuck are you doing, Caelia?” His voice blazes with fury.
My brain overworks itself, trying to find why Mattia sounds ready to set the world on fire. I have done nothing wrong recently. I’ve been the perfect fucking wife, giving him no reason to doubt me. I haven’t embarrassed him or said anything out of line.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why the fuck is Domenico telling me you have an appointment for an abortion?”
Oh, shit. I made sure that no one followed me when I left the mansion. I thought I had been careful. You can never be too cautious with this man.
“It’s not what you think.” I try to calm him down, although I don’t know why he’s so angry.
“And please tell me what the fuck that is,” he growls in my ear.
“I’m not having an abortion,” I whisper, standing up to avoid attracting attention from others in the waiting room.
“Then what the hell are you doing there?”
“Would you just stop swearing and listen to me?” I plead, taking a deep breath.
“I’m listening.”
This is so unlike him. I hear the ragged rhythm of his breathing at the other end, but he waits for an explanation I’m not ready to give. I don’t want to betray Cosima’s trust, nor do I want Mattia to think I’m having an abortion. Things have been going well between us lately, and I’d hate to return to where we started. I can’t go back there again. God, I can’t.
“I promise you. I’m not having an abortion, and I’ll explain everything as soon as I get home. You have to trust me on this. Please.”
I don’t know what else to say for now.
“Trust you, Caelia? After you went behind Domenico’s back?” His disbelief seeps through his words.
“I had to.” I grind my teeth.
I could remind him of what happened the last time I was pregnant, but a perfect wife wouldn’t.
“You had to,” he repeats, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.
I spot Domenico talking with the receptionist at the desk. He’s six feet of intimidating muscle. I can’t blame the woman for opening up the files on her computer, even if she shouldn’t. She starts talking, and I can see Domenico reporting everything back to Mattia, typing away on his phone. Meanwhile, the silence at the other end of the line tells me that Mattia is listening, waiting for an explanation I can’t provide yet. I can’t afford to betray Cosima’s trust.
“Come home. Now.”
“The fuck I will,” I snap. “I’ll come home when I’m done here. Don’t wait up.”
I hang up, knowing I will face the consequences later. Domenico catches sight of me and smirks, a painful reminder that I couldn’t even look him in the eye after he witnessed Mattia fucking me with no shame on the stairs. Scoffing, I turn on my heels, returning to the waiting area.
I send my husband a text.
Please tell Domenico to leave. I’ll come home, and we’ll talk about this.
For now. I’ll go home for now. But there will come a day when I won’t return. I doubt Mattia will care too much. I will embarrass him, and he will hunt me down—perhaps even kill me if he finds me—but I don’t think he will miss me. There are no feelings between us. There can’t be any. I must remember that. No children. He could let me continue with my life, but he won’t. He can’t. Even if he wanted to, he’s not allowed.
Domenico makes himself scarce. I won’t mention this to Cosima. I will find a way to convince Mattia to keep his mouth shut about this, even if it means owing him a favor. It’s a better outcome than Cosima’s husband finding out. He’s a better man than Mattia, but there’s no telling what he would do if he discovered the truth.
I wait for another hour. Cosima asks me to drive her home and refuses to speak with me, no matter how much I try. I don’t want her to drown in her thoughts.
“You’re not alone,” I remind her, squeezing her hand as she stops at a red light.
I had to borrow one of Mattia’s cars. I want to bang my head against the steering wheel when I realize he has probably tracked me down using the car’s GPS. It makes me question how I will escape him if I make careless mistakes. But borrowing a vehicle from Cosima’s husband would have been riskier. She doesn’t drive, and if he found out where we had been, it would be worse.
“I know,” she whispers, returning to staring through the window.
There’s nothing more I can do for her than to be there. I understand her silence, just as she has understood mine countless times. I don’t push. I take her home, make her a cup of tea, and stay with her for a few more hours. We talk, but not about what happened. We talk about our mother, my marriage, and my plan to escape. She’s the only one who knows about my intentions. I won’t tell her where I’m going. I don’t want her burdened with that knowledge, as they might interrogate her. I don’t want her to break. I trust her, but family means everything to her, and I wouldn’t put it past Mattia to threaten her children. However, she can help me with something. Something I can’t do alone.
“I need you to do something for me, Cosima.”
“Anything,” she replies without hesitation.
I ask her to accompany me to the car and give her some instructions. The drive home feels agonizingly long. I try to prepare myself for whatever mood Mattia is in. I place the keys in the bowl near the entrance, slip off my shoes and coat, and deliberately take my time. The mansion feels eerily silent.
“Mattia?” I call out his name, knowing that eventually, I’ll have to face him.
“In the dining room,” he responds.
I take a deep breath and make my way toward his voice. There’s a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach. And they only get worse when I stop in the doorway, staring at my husband. There’s nothing unusual about him tonight. He’s standing at the head of the dining table, his chin resting on his intertwined fingers. It’s the setting that makes me feel as if the floor is on fire. The candlelight lights his face. Where I expect the gun to be, there’s a bouquet of at least one hundred roses on his right side. Dinner is on the table. Wine has been poured into two glasses. I’d have thought I had the wrong house if I hadn’t seen him standing there.
“Caelia … ” The sound of my name coming from his lips makes my knees weak. “Please take a seat.”
Now that he’s asking so kindly, I oblige. I’m too amazed to continue standing anyway. I make my way toward him, trying to keep my steps steady. I settle into the seat to his left, where another set of silverware has been laid out. This table is usually used for decoration unless we have guests. We always had dinner at the kitchen counter.
“I’m sorry I raised my voice at you,” he says, taking my hand—a jolt of electricity courses through my skin.
I know how to deal with his anger, but this—whatever this is—I have no clue. Who the hell is this man?
“I … I don’t know what to say, Mattia. What’s all of this?”
“My way of saying that I’m sorry.”
“You’ve never apologized for anything in our entire marriage,” I remind him.
“I’m a different man now.”
I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. This has lasted far longer than I expected. And he still does or says things that catch me off guard daily. He started training me a few a few weeks ago. He’s teaching me how to defend myself, and I don’t understand why. I thought it was a joke. He allows me to hurt him in the process. He showed me where to stab a man, and he taught me how to fire a gun.
“Okay.” I nod slightly, not knowing what else to say.
“I know I have no right to ask this of you, but would you tell me, please, if you were ever pregnant again?”
I want to say no. It’s the logical thing to say after everything he did to me. But there’s a softness in his eyes that was never there before. I could raise a child with this man. I could have loved this man if he had been like this since the beginning of our marriage. I would have willingly placed my body and my heart in his hands.
He stands up, turns my chair toward him, and crouches before me. He cups my cheeks, staring into my eyes and wipes the tears running down my face with his thumbs. His skin is warm, and the touch is familiar and comforting. I can’t allow it, but I do nothing to stop it.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, but it doesn’t seem like he’s apologizing for today.
“You agreed when I told you we could try to make this marriage work, but I’ll never forgive you.” I bite my lip, trying to stop the tears from running down my face.
“I know. If I die, you’re going to open a bottle of champagne and dance on my grave.” He gives me a defeated smile. It terrifies me. “I remember Wildfire. Don’t cry. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Go back in time and give me this,” I ask for the most impossible thing in the world. “Give me this version of yourself when I was eighteen.”
There’s a crack in my heart that I can’t prevent. His jaw twitches. Standing in front of me, he keeps wiping the tears off my cheeks.
“You’ll never be able to forgive me.”
“I can’t,” I confirm. “So I will tell you this, Mattia. If I”m ever pregnant again, you’ll be the last person to find out. And I will not bring a child into this life.”
“You mean you won’t bring my child into this life?”
He’s not angry. He’s just resigned.
“We can make this marriage work. But it will always be loveless and childless.”
“Am I foolish for hoping to change your mind one day?”
“Yes. So unless you want to go back to your old self and force me to have a child, it won’t ever happen.”
“I won’t do that.”
He could, but he chooses not to. I’m still powerless in this marriage—we both know it. He could lock me inside a room, take everything away from me again, and keep me there until I deliver what he wants.
“I made an appointment for my sister under my name. And I know that I have no right to ask this of you, but please don’t say anything to anyone. I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t mention anything to my father or Cosima’s husband.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I won’t tell, and Domenico won’t either. We should eat. I’ve made your favorite food, and it’s getting cold.”
He did, giving me another reason to add to the list of things that could have made me love him.
“You cooked?” I frown, wiping the remaining tears away.
“My skills are not limited to the bedroom,” he grins.
Almost is a heartbreaking word. We are almost all right. We almost made this marriage work. I almost ...
I almost fell in love with him tonight.