Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ayanna
Istand in the doorway, unable to move.
I should. Anyone else would. But my body refuses, as if stepping fully into the room would make this any more real than it is.
Chiara is pressed against Aric’s chest, her hands twisted in his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in her world.
Her shoulders still tremble, probably the aftershocks of grief running through her in uneven waves.
Aric just stands there, unmoving and solid, letting her break against him without breaking himself.
And something in my chest tightens.
It can’t be jealousy.
I refuse to call it that.
Because jealousy would imply I feel something. And I don’t. I don’t because I chose nothing about this man. Neither of us wanted anything to do with this marriage. He didn’t choose me. I didn’t choose him. Signatures and vows bound us, words recited like a sentence rather than a promise.
Yet… this is the same man who didn’t hesitate to step in front of a bullet for me.
The same man who promised to save the one person who I’m sure he’d want dead only because I asked. And I know he didn’t have to make that promise. I know he could simply refuse, and I’d have to accept it for what it is.
The same man who now stands here, absorbing the grief of the woman he once loved, whose life shattered the moment our marriage became inevitable.
I steady my breathing. I am not angry. I can’t be.
This marriage didn’t just ruin my life. It tore through his. Through Chiara’s. Through Luca’s. Through every fragile illusion any of us were still clinging to. We are all collateral in a war that started long before we knew of each other’s existence.
And I know Aric by now. He’s a man of few words but rigid principles. A man who keeps his vows because he said he would. Because once spoken, they become law. Not because of love. Not because of tenderness. But because his word is the one thing no one is allowed to question.
Including me.
Chiara stirs, pulling back slightly, her hands loosening their grip on him as her gaze shifts.
And then she sees me.
Her watery eyes widen, the realization hitting her all at once. Her breath hitches, sharp and shallow, like the room has suddenly tilted beneath her feet.
“So this is your wife?” Her voice trembles as she looks at me. Scrutinizes me.
I don’t say anything. I don’t even know what to say.
Seeing her like this feels… strange. Chiara is no longer a past tense tucked between silences and half answers.
She’s standing right there, made of caramel golden waves and amber eyes, of shaking hands and a grief I can see without trying.
A woman he once planned a future with. A woman who existed long before me.
It’s different when she’s flesh and breath instead of an idea—when she’s no longer a story told but a presence I have to acknowledge.
I wonder if this is how Aric felt when he saw Luca. If reality hit him the same way it hits me now?
My throat feels too tight, my tongue too heavy. Anything I say would sound like an intrusion. Like salt in an open wound. So I stay still, my silence deliberate, my face carefully neutral.
Aric’s hand falls away from Chiara, and then his gaze meets mine.
It locks there, unflinching, unwavering, holding me in place the way his presence always does.
“Yes.” He pauses just long enough to draw a line in the air. “This is my wife.”
The words hit me like a gunshot.
Not Mrs. Vold.
Not the arrangement.
Not the obligation.
My wife.
He says it out loud. In front of Nikos and Hyun-seok. In front of Serena. In front of Chiara. And the way he says it… sounds like a claim.
We arrive back in Norway, and a waiting car drives us from the airfield to the estate. The cold greets me the moment I step outside, sharp enough to steal my breath, just as it did the day I first arrived.
This time, I don’t mind. If anything, it feels like washing Italy off my skin.
Before I can even take another step, a blur of white and gray barrels toward me.
“El—” I barely get the name out before Elske reaches me, her massive body skidding to a halt at my legs. She presses her head against my thighs, tail sweeping the snow behind her like a banner.
I freeze for half a second. Then I kneel, my gloved hands sinking into thick fur, and she lets out a low, pleased sound that vibrates straight through me.
Only then does she trot toward Aric.
“Traitor,” he mutters dryly, but something changes at the corner of his mouth. Barely perceptible, yet I’ve grown accustomed to his ghost smiles by now. He doesn’t reach for her or bend to greet her, yet she presses herself against his leg all the same.
We enter the foyer, and instantly, a smell of ginger hits my nose.
Two servants slip forward to lift our coats from our shoulders.
I let mine go and follow Aric down the corridor toward the living room, my heels echoing against the dark wooden floor.
The hearth is already burning when we reach it, gold spilling onto wood, and the air is heavier here with that warm ginger note clinging to everything.
“Ingrid’s already made tea,” a familiar voice reaches me from behind. Before I can turn fully, Ingrid presses a warm cup of ginger tea into my hands. It’s her signature remedy for everything from cold nights to bad news.
“Drink.” She smiles. “You look pale.”
I do. I can feel it.
“Thank you,” I murmur, fingers tightening around the porcelain as the heat seeps in.
Behind her, Eero passes Aric, bumping his shoulder as he goes. Not enough to be accidental. Aric doesn’t look at him, but his lips curve slightly. For one brief, dangerous moment, something settles in my chest.
This place. This strange rhythm. The way Ingrid fusses, the way Eero lingers, the way even the wolf accepts me. I could almost imagine myself belonging here.
Almost.
Because then Vidar appears. He stands at the edge of the space like a shadow given shape, his presence cutting cleanly through whatever fragile illusion I was building.
“What are you going to do about Luca?” He frowns at Aric, voice stern.
The tea burns my tongue as I swallow.
The air changes. I know Luca isn’t just a person here. He’s a problem. A loose end.
“I’ll handle it,” Aric says, as though the decision has already been made.
Vidar’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing, and I understand without needing to be told. This conversation is not for me.
I lower the cup carefully onto the table, my fingers steady even as my chest tightens. I don’t look at Vidar. I look at Aric instead, and somehow, he meets my eyes as if in sync.
“I’ll excuse myself,” I state, already stepping back, and Aric nods slightly.
As I walk away, the warmth of the tea fades, replaced by the familiar weight that’s followed me since the altar.
I wait in my bedroom. It’s been about thirty minutes. I keep glancing at my phone, checking the hour every half a minute. I can’t settle, knowing they’re discussing Luca’s fate. I wonder if Aric will keep his promise and save—or at least, try to—Luca’s life as he did Chiara’s.
I’m standing by the window when there’s a knock on the door. My body jerks, startled by the sound.
“You can come in,” I say.
The door opens, and Aric steps inside. He comes to a stop behind me, close enough that I can feel him there without turning around. The presence. The weight. Like the air itself has adjusted to accommodate him.
“Luca will leave Norway tonight,” he declares. “Alive.”
My shoulders sag before I can stop them. Relief floods me so sharply it nearly hurts.
“But not untouched,” he continues, and there it is. The other half. The part I knew was coming.
I turn slowly and face him. His expression is unreadable, carved into that familiar mask of restraint.
“The Gods were involved,” he adds, looking directly into my eyes. “This stopped being a matter between him and me the moment Domenico entered the equation. I spoke to Nikos before we left. Because of Chiara… he agreed.”
Of course, everything is always traded in this world. Lives for lives. Mercy for leverage.
“What’s the punishment?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
Aric’s jaw tightens for the briefest moment. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
I nod. Not because I don’t want to know, but because I understand he’s doing this for me. He knows I wouldn’t like whatever this is. Despite the circumstances, I appreciate it. He’s already bent his own rules further than most men ever would—for me.
“Can I…” I hesitate, then clear my throat. “Can I see him? Just once. Before… he goes.”
Aric’s eyes search my face, as if he’s looking for something specific. A reason to refuse.
“You loved him,” he states at last. It isn’t a question. It isn’t an accusation either. Just a fact laid bare between us.
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to defend. Nothing to deny. Love doesn’t disappear just because the world decides it’s inconvenient.
Something changes in his gaze. Subtle and almost imperceptible. The kind of change you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it, but I’ve learned to read this man’s limited facial expressions.
“You can have your goodbye.” His voice rumbles through the room. “After that, there is no more contact. Ever.”
My chest tightens, but I nod again.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Aric turns toward the door, opens it, and pauses. “Be ready.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “When you come back… you come back as my wife.”