Chapter 308
Chapter 308
~LORETTA~
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The sound of the front door closing was soft, almost careful, like Marco didn’t want me to know the time he’d finally gotten home. That bothered me a lot more than it should.
Why was he being so quiet? Why did he not want me to know he was finally back? What had happened between them tonight?
I was already on my feet before the latch clicked into place.
I didn’t look at the clock on the wall. I didn’t want the number. I didn’t want to know whether he’d been gone three us or five, or what either of those lengths might mean when the woman he’d gone to see was the same one his mother d spent weeks trying to place back in his path.
I told myself I was only going to the kitchen for water.
The lie held until I stepped into the entrance and nearly walked straight into him.
He stopped. Surprise crossed his face, quick and unguarded.
He still had his keys in one hand. His jacket was half off one shoulder, the collar of his shirt open at the throat. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the drive.
“How did the conversation with Caterina go?”
The question left my mouth before I could decide whether I was allowed to ask it. The contract didn’t cover this. The contract had covered appearances and signatures and the careful public story of a marriage that had existed on paper only
It had not covered the part where I stood in his house with my heart beating wildly, waiting to hear whether the woman he used to love had asked him to come back.
“It was okay.” He set the keys on the narrow table by the door. “I still feel like an ass.”
“You didn’t know.” I kept my voice soft, afraid I’d show how awful I felt. My hands stayed at my sides. “For years you thought she was telling the truth. Anyone would have believed what she said.”
I wasn’t sure I believed his mother. The story was cruel. It was also convenient. Mrs. Vescari had spent days giving out locations and excuses, rearranging rooms and schedules so that Caterina would be exactly where Marco would have no choice but to see her.
A confession that painted his mother as the villain and Caterina as the long-suffering victim could help her get exactly what she wanted. I didn’t say that part out loud. I watched his expression instead.
“I should have known she was never someone like that,” he said. His voice was low. He wasn’t looking at me. “I misjudged her. This is my fault. I should have fought for her in the past instead of just assuming she was telling the truth.”
The words felt like a fist against my ribs. I felt the impact of them and then the slow, spreading ache that followed. He had said it so simply. Like the regret was still sharp. Like some part of him still measured the shape of what he’d lost.
My mouth went dry. I swallowed once before I spoke.
“What are your intentions with her?”
The question came out before I could stop it. I heard how it sounded. I hated the sound of it.
His head lifted. He frowned, the line between his brows deepening. “My intentions?”
I stepped closer. I hadn’t planned to. The space between us simply closed until I could see how his hand flexed once at his side, like he was deciding whether he was allowed to reach for me.
His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before they came back to mine. The heat in them was intense and unmistakable and completely at odds with the careful distance he had been keeping since the day we’d signed the papers. I could have stopped there. I could have laughed the question off and gone to the kitchen like I had claimed I was doing. Instead I heard myself ask the thing I had been too afraid to say when he walked out the door.
“No,” I said. My voice was quieter now. “I meant what are your intentions with me?”
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