Chapter 30 Evi
EVI
I push the fork around my plate, pretending to eat, but I barely taste the food.
Butter and jam smear across the toast, but the act feels hollow.
My hands shake slightly as I lift the fork again.
My mind isn’t on breakfast—it’s on last night, on the chaos, on Sandro tearing through the ballroom like a storm.
I hear the front door open and freeze. My stomach tightens.
Glancing through the doorway of the breakfast room, I catch his familiar silhouette as he steps inside.
Sweat clings to his shirt, darkening large swaths of the fabric.
His hair is damp and wild from his workout.
He’s tense, coiled, and the edges of him seem sharper than ever.
I take a deep breath and push my chair back. My stomach churns, guilt twisting with worry. I can’t let him see how fragile I feel. Not now. Not when he’s been through so much.
I meet him in the hallway. “Sandro?” I say softly, stepping toward him.
He doesn’t look at me. But his broad shoulders bunch slightly, and he moves with that precise, controlled energy that makes my pulse spike and my chest ache. “Evi,” he says, voice clipped.
I step closer. “Can we… talk about last night?”
His eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second—quick, guarded. Then he turns away, leading the way toward the stairs. I follow, heart pounding. I try to keep my steps light, but my stomach feels heavy, weighted with secrets I’m not ready to share.
When we reach the bedroom, he lets me step inside first. I linger near the door, watching him. “Sandro, I… I just want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not—”
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, voice sharp. He closes the door behind us, shutting out the world, though the gruff way he does it makes it feel like he would much prefer I be on the far side as well. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I swallow hard, clenching my fists at my sides. “Are you… upset with me? If—if you blame me for what happened in the ballroom…” My words falter, my pulse racing as my jaw works, but no sound comes out.
He pauses, and for a heartbeat, he really looks at me, dark eyes scanning my face. I hold my breath, hoping, praying for some flicker of warmth or reassurance.
“I don’t blame you,” he says finally, voice low but firm. “Raf’s safety is my responsibility. The security breach was my fault. Not yours.”
A small relief sparks in me, fleeting but intense. I want to reach for him, to tell him that I understand, that he shouldn’t blame himself either, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I just nod, trying to hold onto that relief.
Then he adds casually, almost cruelly, “But you are a distraction I can’t afford right now.”
Even the second time around, the words hit me like a punch to the gut. My throat constricts.
And before I can manufacture a response, he brusquely brushes aside the comment. “I’ll be busy tonight. Out late. Don’t wait up.”
My stomach drops, my pulse spiking. I want to argue, to grab his arm, to force him to acknowledge me.
But I can’t. He’s already moving, stripping off his damp shirt as he approaches the bathroom.
Muscles flexing, sweat shining, controlled and perfect.
My heart aches with longing, and the sting of rejection settles in like a stone in my chest.
I step closer, hesitating. “Sandro… wait. Can’t we just… talk for a minute?”
He pauses, towel slung over his shoulder. “We have nothing to talk about. I lost focus last night. I won’t again.”
I open my mouth, but the words fail me. “Do you… hate me?” I try again, softer, fragile.
He stops mid-step, looking at me fully this time. Something flashes across his eyes—an emotion I can’t name—but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. “No.”
But he doesn’t soften, doesn’t drop the walls between us even a fraction of an inch to reassure me that he means it. And my stomach sinks as I realize this is how it’s going to be between us. Maybe indefinitely.
I exhale slowly, fear, guilt, and anxiety overwhelming any sense of relief. I want to say more, to reach out, to tell him that I understand what he’s going through and I’m here. That I’m his wife. That I love him. And I want to support him in any way I can.
But the secret I carry sits heavy in my stomach, tightening with every heartbeat. I’m pregnant. And if this conversation has confirmed one thing, it’s that he’s not ready to hear it.
I keep my hand to myself, wrapping my fingers around the hem of my sweater instead. The thought of telling him now—it would only complicate things. He’s on edge, furious, exhausted, and still holding himself responsible for Raf, for Miko, for everything else he deems more important.
He doesn’t need more worry.
And he definitely doesn’t need the hope of a child only to be disappointed when something goes wrong.
So I stay silent.
Sandro moves toward the shower, towel dropping from his shoulders. I watch the water start, the steam rising, and the faint sound of the tiles warming under it. He doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t ask me to join him, like he once would.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Tears prickle the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. I’m intensely aware of the distance between us now, and it terrifies me. For the first time since our wedding night, a dangerous possibility creeps back into my mind—that my parents were right all along.
When this war is over, Sandro might not want to keep me after all.
The thought guts me, and I wrap my arms around my waist as I fight to hold myself together.
Right now, this baby is the only sure thing that could tether me to him, keep me close enough that I might crawl my way back into his heart. And if I lose it, I won’t just be losing my child. I have a new, horrible certainty that I’ll lose my future with Sandro as well.
Turning on my heel, I rush from the room before Sandro can see me fall apart.