Chapter 7
T he strange thing about being hit is that you don’t feel it right away. Pain always lags behind the impact.
I think I’m still in that second—that thin slice of time where the blow has already landed and I’m only beginning to understand it.
Around me, the Navarro family dining room gleams beneath a canopy of chandeliers.
White linen, polished silver, crystal wine glasses catching the light like prisms. Conversation ripples around the enormous table, laughter rising and falling in waves.
On the surface, it looks like another picture-perfect dinner. Underneath, I can smell the rot.
Xavier sits opposite me, his attention fixed on his plate—or anywhere that isn’t my face. He hasn’t looked at me once since Isabel slipped into the chair beside him.
I’d been heading for that seat, but one of his aunts hooked her arm through mine at the last second, laughing as she steered me away from him. Now Isabel is the one at his side instead, close enough that her shoulder brushes his every time she leans in.
It hits like a punch to the ribs.
He lied.
And I was stupid enough to believe it.
I force myself to breathe, but I might as well be borrowing oxygen.
No. It can’t be.
There has to be an explanation. I can’t jump to conclusions. I trust my husband.
I have to.
I shift in my seat and drag my gaze away from him, letting it skim the length of the table instead.
Guinevere presides at the head, regal and untouchable, the undisputed queen of this little kingdom. Alejandro sits beside her, his broad hand draped over hers. To their right, Isabel laughs at something Lucien says, the sound bright and effortless.
She fits. As if she was always meant to.
I swallow and lift my wine, turning the glass slowly between my fingers, watching the deep red catch and fracture in the candlelight.
Sympathy , I correct myself for the second time tonight. That’s all this is.
Every few minutes, someone tries to pull me into conversation—a cousin asking about Greece, an aunt remarking on the unseasonable warmth—but their voices blur, distant and weightless. My attention keeps drifting back to the woman in red.
There’s something about her that makes looking away impossible. The ease with which she occupies the space. The soft laugh that pulls a smile from my husband’s lips. It’s as if she knows exactly where his attention belongs—and worse, as if she’s testing whether he remembers who used to have it.
Goosebumps dimple my skin. The room suddenly feels colder, the air skimming over my bare arms. I rub my hands along them, trying to chase the chill away.
Isabel leans close to Guinevere, showing her something on her phone, and Guinevere’s face lights up. Their heads incline together, nearly touching, the intimacy of it tightening like a fist around my lungs .
They look like mother and daughter.
A few seats down, élise catches my eye. She offers me a small, sympathetic smile.
I force my lips to curve in return.
Even her kindness feels like pity.
It burns, because pity means there’s something to be sorry for.
The first course arrives: delicate bowls of langoustine bisque, fragrant with cream and cognac—a Navarro family staple. The chef himself appears briefly to present the dish, and a flutter of applause moves around the table as servers ladle out steaming portions.
One of the footmen sets a bowl in front of me.
The rich scent of shellfish hits instantly. My stomach twists. My throat prickles.
I’m allergic.
Xavier has always made certain nothing like this ever touches my plate. Everyone here knows it.
And yet—
Before I can say a word, his hand reaches across the table and slides the bowl closer to me.
“You’ll love this, Yara,” he says, not even glancing up, his voice the absent, polite tone he uses with strangers.
He’s already turned back to Isabel, asking her something about Madrid as if on autopilot.
I stare down at the golden-orange soup, its surface glistening with a drizzle of truffle oil in the candlelight. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the one thing on this table that could send me to the hospital.
To my death.
He forgot.
The man who once scoured entire menus for hidden shrimp paste, who warned waiters in five different languages about my allergy, has just pushed a bowl of it in front of me and forgotten .
“Actually,” I muster a plastic smile, “I think I’ll pass on this one.”
Guinevere manicured hand stills halfway to her mouth. She lowers her spoon with deliberate care and looks at me across the rim of her bowl.
“Is something wrong, ma chère? It would be a shame to insult the chef.”
Her tone is perfectly pleasant. The disapproval beneath it isn’t.
élise jumps in. “Maman, Yara’s allergic to shellfish.”
“Ah.” Guinevere breathes out the syllable like a mild annoyance. She gives a small, dismissive wave of her hand and turns back to Isabel. “ Bien s?r.”
No apology. No concern. Just of course , like I’ve inconvenienced everyone by existing with an allergy.
Heat floods my cheeks. I drop my gaze to the table, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue.
Act fine. Look radiant. Bleed quietly.
Xavier finally looks at me, a faint crease appearing between his dark brows. “Right,” he murmurs, as if the realization has only just caught up to him. “Lo siento, amor. I forgot.”
I forgot.
Two hollow words that drop into the space between us like stones.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek and say nothing.
Xavier’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “Who served this?” he asks, lifting the bowl.
The room goes silent.
A footman rushes forward, head bowed.
My husband’s jaw tightens as he places the bowl into the man’s waiting hands. “My wife has a severe shellfish allergy. It should never have reached her.”
He pales, stammering an apology.
Xavier’s gaze sweeps over the room. “See that it doesn’t happen again.” He settles back into his seat, tugging at his tie. “Are you okay, amor?”
I nod.
I don’t know whether to feel grateful he took my side, or heartbroken he needed the reminder.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He’s already turned back to Isabel, his attention caught by her story about her father’s vineyard outside Madrid.
Hours ago, we were talking about our future. Now he looks like a man revisiting a past that never included me.
She laughs and touches his arm, her fingers resting there a moment too long.
He doesn’t pull away. No—he fucking smiles.
A slow, burning pressure builds in my chest, heat climbing up my throat.
He’s crossing a line.
He should know better.
The woman he married was never one to suffer humiliation in silence.
A hush falls as Alejandro rises partway from his seat, lifting his glass.
" Una brindis," he says in his warm Spanish baritone before switching to English with a proud smile.
"A toast. To family, both those we have lost, and those we are blessed to have back among us tonight.
" His eyes find Isabel at that, and the entire table murmurs in agreement.
A chorus of "To family" rises as everyone lifts their glasses.
Crystal clinks gently like tiny bells. I raise mine a beat late and take a sip, letting the dry red wine burn its way down my throat.
The ache in my chest should be drowning in alcohol by now, but even four generous glasses in, I'm stone-cold sober. The pain refuses to be numbed.
"You must miss Espana, no?" one of the aunts says to Isabel as the toast subsides. "And your poor father, such a tragedy, Dios mío."
Isabel lowers her lashes. "Every day," she replies softly.
Guinevere reaches over to pat Isabel's hand, her eyes shining with sympathy. " Ma pauvre fille, " she coos. My poor girl. “Stay as long as you need. This house is always yours."
Yours. A bitter lump rises in my throat. I’ve been under this roof for years, and Guinevere has never once implied the house was mine. I’m just the daughter-in-law. The guest, practically. But Isabel strolls back into their lives, and she’s welcomed like a beloved child.
An older uncle across the table winks in Isabel's direction. "If I didn't know any better," he chuckles, "I'd say our Xavier looks happier tonight than he's been in years." His eyes sparkle with teasing mirth. "Must be the good company, eh, mijo?"
Laughter bubbles around the table. Someone makes a good-natured whistle. Isabel demures with a blush, and Xavier rubs the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning red.
I set my half-empty wine glass down very carefully before it cracks between my fingers. A rushing sound fills my ears. I know they’re all waiting for me to react, expecting a smile, a laugh—anything to make them comfortable. So I plaster on a grin I hope doesn’t look as fractured as it feels.
"He's happy because he's home," I interject, lifting my chin. My voice carries down the table, silencing a few chuckles. I turn the full wattage of my gaze on my husband and smile. “ N'est-ce pas, mon amour? ” Isn't that right my love?
Xavier freezes. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he drags his eyes up to meet mine. In that split second, his mask slips. I see it flare in those whiskey-colored eyes—guilt, panic, a desperate plea not to do this here.
It’s gone in an instant, so fast I almost think I imagined it.
He forces a tight smile. “ Oui, bien s?r, ” he says, his voice low. Of course.
His answer comes in French, an automatic reversion to the language of his childhood under stress. It doesn’t matter which language he speaks. I understand them all, and I hear the lie as plainly as everyone else does.
An awkward chuckle or two sounds, and the table's chatter haltingly resumes. Utensils scrape against china. Someone asks Alejandro about the upcoming harvest season at the vineyard, and the moment passes for everyone. Everyone except me and the man who used to be my partner in all things.