Chapter Five
I'M NOT SURE HOW IT happens. Or why.
One moment I'm in his arms, and the next, all I can think about is what he just told me in the seconds before he kissed me. Eighteen years. WITSEC. El Carnicero. And underneath all of it, the one thing I've spent eighteen years not letting myself remember.
The wedding night.
The woman in his bed.
And then suddenly—
No no no no no no.
“I'm going to be sick.”
It's true. And fortunately for both of us, Nate—no, Nicolo, now—he's as fast as I remember him, and he gets me to the sink in seconds.
Ugh.
He holds my hair away from my face as I throw up everything I've eaten in the past ten hours.
Above the sink is the window I keep cracked open even in winter because the radiator runs hot, and through it I can hear Mr. Diaz one floor down yelling something at the Cubs game.
A normal day for my neighbor who may or may not also be in his payroll, but for me, this day just keeps getting unbearable.
When I'm done, Nate—Nicolo—is holding out a white handkerchief.
I force myself to reach for it.
“T-Thanks.”
I'm not sure why it matters, but I need to prove to him I'm not the immature type to cut my nose to spite my face.
I wipe my lips while my insides continue to twist. I close my eyes, but it doesn't make any difference. I still remember everything, and that's what makes me sick. And I just...I just...
“Please let me go.”
I see it in his face.
He knows what made me sick. He was there, too.
And her.
“Juniper—”
“I saw you,” I choke out. “I saw you with another woman that night—”
“I meant you to.”
“Just please stop—”
“I paid that woman to play a role—”
“So she's your mistress—”
“I needed her help to break your heart so completely that you won't be tempted to look me up when I leave.”
All I can do is stare at him, and his jaw clenches.
“I know I hurt you—”
A strained laugh escapes me.
“Hurt me? Are you serious?”
Memories come rushing in, of how those first few months had me spiraling. Of how the tears didn't even come at first. Of how it took months before I cried about him for the first time, like my body needed that long to believe what my eyes had seen.
“You didn't hurt me—”
I almost call him Nate. But stop myself in time when I realize the Nate I married never existed, and my heart breaks anew when another painful realization hits me.
“Are we even married?”
I don't even know what I'm holding my breath for as I wait for his answer.
All I know is that my heart is hammering against my chest, and it's the silliest thing, always the silliest thing with him, but it suddenly feels like my life is hanging on a thread as the silence between us turns more excruciating by the second.
“How do you want me to answer that?” he asks, his voice low.
“Why won't you just tell me if we're still married or not?”
“Then why won't you tell me first—”
“No, I don't want to be married to you.”
The words come out stilted, but I don't let myself think why that is.
“I don't even want to see you again. So if I had a choice—”
“You don't.” His voice is flat.
No no no no no no no.
“Because you're still married to me, and I will never let you go.”
I take a step away from him. Then another. The kitchen is small—three steps and I'm at the edge of the living room, four and I'm at the back of the couch, and that's where I stop because my legs won't take me further.
I wish I could convince myself he's joking.
But all I can see in his eyes is how dead serious he is.
“You're insane.”
All I can do is laugh.
“You're absolutely insane—”
And cry.
“Just absolutely insane...”
And so am I. Insane, I mean. Because I suddenly can't stop laughing and crying. My knees give and I catch myself on the back of the couch, fingers digging into the upholstery, and I'm laughing and crying and laughing and crying until I can no longer breathe.
Until everything goes black.