Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Isabella
Ithought things would change after I shared everything and poured my truth out to him, and he held me like I was something precious instead of broken.
For a moment, he was vulnerable and his tenderness made my chest ache. He looked at me with eyes that saw beyond the walls I had built, beyond the scars my father embedded in my soul, and he didn’t turn away. He held me as if I mattered, like I was worth protecting.
When he fucked me that night there was a tenderness that I had only felt once before.
In the way his hands moved over my skin.
The way he looked at me while he was inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath mingling with mine.
In the way he whispered my name against my lips like it was a prayer, a promise, and a confession he could not quite bring himself to say out loud.
And then the next day, he reverted to being cold again.
So much colder than before, as if showing me that side of himself cost him something. Now he has to overcompensate by being twice as distant, as if he gave me a piece of himself in the dark and now needs to take it back in the light.
He barely looks at me. But when I do catch him looking, when I turn my head fast enough to see his eyes on me, he looks away. He barely speaks to me unless it is absolutely necessary.
Over the past two weeks, he has mostly stayed locked in his office.
I have walked down the hallway to that door more times than I can count, standing outside with my hand raised to knock, wanting to pound on the door until my knuckles bleed.
I’ve thought about picking that lock and storming in there, shouting at him to notice me, to stop pretending I don’t exist. But that would make me pathetic, clingy and desperate.
Everything I swore I would never be again.
It’s dangerous to let myself feel this way because I have been here before, wanting someone to notice me, choose me, and fight for me. And I watched him die for it.
I swore I would never be that vulnerable again. Never let someone matter enough to the point where losing them would break me.
But here I am, standing outside Lorenzo’s office like a lovesick fool. Wanting him to open the door, pull me inside, and fuck me on his desk while telling me I matter—that I am not just another piece in whatever game he’s playing.
I hate myself for wanting him and for caring about what he thinks, feels, or does when I am not around.
He is distracted; I can see that. His mind is somewhere else, or on someone else.
He may fuck me every night, yet I still suspect he’s fucking someone else. Somewhere in this city, there’s a woman who gets that softer side of him. The one who gets his attention during the day instead of just his cock at night.
What’s the other explanation? He got what he wanted from me—my loyalty, truth, and trust. My body sprawled beneath him every night, giving him whatever he asks for.
The idea makes me want to scream and break things. I want to find whoever she is and carve my name into her skin so she knows exactly who he belongs to.
I want to make her bleed the same way I’m bleeding inside. Which is insane. I should not be this possessive over a man who treats me like property, who married me for power, alliances and nothing more.
But I care so much that it’s eating me alive and consuming me from the inside out until there’s nothing left but this burning, gnawing need to know where he goes when he leaves. Who he sees. Who he touches. Whether he whispers her name the way he whispers mine in the dark.
He has been gone for two days now. Two full days without a word. No text, no call, or any indication of where he is, when he might return, or if he’s even still alive.
And I am losing my damn mind.
I pace the house like a caged animal, walking from room to room with no destination in mind.
I just keep moving because if I stop, I’ll start thinking.
And if I start thinking, I will begin imagining.
If I start imagining, I will see her and wonder if he touches her the way he touches me.
If he makes her scream his name the way he makes me scream.
Carlo can see it. How I am falling apart at the seams. He asks if I need anything, if I want dinner made, or if there’s something he can do to help.
I snap at him. I tell him to fuck off and leave me alone. That I’m fine even though we both know I’m not.
I apologize later. I find him in the hallway and mumble, “Sorry,” as if it will erase the venom in my voice. He nods and says it’s okay, but I can see the concern in his eyes and the questions he’s too smart to ask.
I can’t tell him why my insides are twisted into knots or why I can’t explain that I am losing my mind over a man who doesn’t owe me any explanations. I can’t admit that I’m terrified my husband is between someone else’s thighs while I sit here waiting like some pathetic fool.
Yesterday, I threw a glass against the kitchen wall just to hear it shatter. I watched the wine drip down the white paint like blood on snow.
It doesn’t make me feel better, but at least it’s something. Some release for the pressure that’s been building inside me. Some proof that I still exist, that I can still feel something other than this gnawing emptiness.
Then I sense guilt because Maria will have to clean it up tomorrow.
She will need to scrub wine stains off white paint and pick up glass shards all because I can’t handle my husband disappearing for two days.
Because I am an insecure mess who’s falling apart over a man who might not even be thinking about me at all.
She shouldn’t have to deal with my breakdown and clean up the mess of my unraveling. So instead, I do it. It’s a never-ending routine. Two glasses in two days, shattered, and cleaned as if it never happened.
When I finally hear the front door open late in the evening on the second day, I am sitting in the living room with a glass of wine in my hand that I haven’t touched. I just needed something to hold to keep my hands from shaking.
Lorenzo walks in just after midnight—his jacket slung over one arm, and his hair slightly disheveled, as if someone has run their fingers through it.
There’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that wasn’t there two days ago.
He looks tired, worn in a way I’ve never seen before.
Heavy dark circles sit under his eyes. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked on one side.
But he is still so goddamn beautiful that it hurts to think that someone else has had him the way I have had him.
His eyes lock onto mine across the room. He pauses in the doorway and simply stands there, looking at me, and I see something flicker across his face—the realization that he’s walked into a minefield.
I don’t say anything at first. I just stare at him, making him feel the weight of my silence and the fury I’ve been holding onto for the past two days.
I push the jealousy burning inside me deep down where he can’t see it.
I refuse to let him know how much control he has over me.
I hate that he’s turned me into someone who throws glasses at walls, snaps at staff, and unravels over a man’s absence. I was never this girl before him.
He moves through the house with the confidence of a man who answers to no one, sets his jacket down on the back of a chair, and rolls up his sleeves. The right side first and then the left. His inked forearms flex as he works the fabric. His eyes stay on me the entire time, watching.
I lift the glass of wine to my lips and take a slow sip, keeping my eyes fixed on his, letting the silence simmer between us.
The air crackles and I feel the heat of his gaze on my skin, watching the way his eyes follow the movement of my throat as I swallow. They drop to my lips as I set the glass down.
“Bella,” he finally says. “If you’ve got something to say, just fucking say it.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying him the way he’s studying me. “Who is she?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he looks at me with those dark eyes that reveal nothing. His jaw ticks. Once. Twice. The only sign that my words have made an impact.
“Answer me,” I say, voice cold. I sound like my father, and I fucking hate it, but I can’t seem to stop.
“No.”
I stand up and set the wine glass down on the table before I give into the urge to throw it at his beautiful face. “Tell me.”
“I don’t answer to anyone, Bella. And I sure as shit don’t answer to you.”
“You vanish for two days without a word, and you think you don’t owe me an explanation?”
“As I said, I don’t owe you anything.” His voice is detached in a way that makes me want to scream. “You are my wife. Not my keeper.”
The words hit me harder than a slap. My face flushes hot as anger and humiliation battles inside me for control.
“Then what the fuck am I?” I ask, my voice cracking, and I hate myself for it. “What am I to you, Lorenzo?”
He takes another step closer, stopping a few feet away, close enough for me to smell him now. He examines me with those unreadable eyes. “You know what you are.”
“Do I?” I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Because right now I am just another possession. Another thing you own. A piece of property you can ignore when it suits you and fuck when you get bored.”
His jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. “You are not property, Bella.”
“Then what am I?”
“Mine.”
The word lingers between us. Possessive, but it isn’t enough.
“That is not an answer,” I say.
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
“Are you fucking someone else?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His eyes flash dark and dangerous, like a storm brewing behind them. “Careful, Bella.”
“Or what? What are you going to do, Lorenzo? Punish me for asking questions? For wanting to know where my husband has been for the past two fucking days?”
“I was working.”
“On who?”