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“It is.” I lean down. “I may not be as willing to disclose as you, but I’ve done my own share of opening up and placing my trust in you. If you can’t see that, if you’re demanding more than I’m prepared to give even as you compare me to the man who destroyed my ability to trust, then perhaps it’s your turn to look in the mirror and see who you resemble.”

I turn my back on the mother of my child and stalk out of the room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alessandra

Morning sun makesthe white walls of Santorini glow. The bright blue rooftops that grace countless pictures on Instagram and Pinterest gleam in the early-morning light. At this hour, the streets are mostly empty, giving me time alone with my chaotic thoughts.

As I wander up and down the alleys and streets, I’m bombarded by images. Michail zipping me into my dress at Lucas’s boutique. Staring at me as I undressed like he’d never seen anything he wanted so much in his life. Smiling down at me last night as if he never wanted to let me go.

Thickness swells in my throat. That brief high had made the fall even harder when, just minutes later, he drew a line between us. Part of me understands. We have a bond between us. But it was a bond forged out of circumstance, not choice.

Yet I thought the last few days we were growing closer. It felt like he respected the boundaries we had agreed on, but he had also been the one to introduce intimacy, to subtly push and draw me in. But the intimacy he’s offering doesn’t include himself. Only what he’ll share in the bedroom.

My throat tightens. I certainly didn’t help matters. Instead of taking time to calm down and talk to him, I lashed out. I truly hadn’t been comparing him to Lucifer when I’d said what I did.Only that I was coming to understand how our mothers had fallen for the men who had taken everything they had to give yet refused to do the same.

I stop in front of a small nook carved into one of the stone walls. A statue of a woman draped in Grecian robes stands inside, gleaming white and cradling a baby in her arm. My hand drifts down to my belly. I can only imagine how frightened our mothers were, stranded with no resources, no support.

Remorse propels me away from the statue. There are some similarities in my situation. But one key difference is Michail’s desire to be a part of our son’s life. Yes, he hurt me last night. His lack of trust even as he demands more of me is something we’ll have to address.

But my response—more lashing out, out of fear and embarrassment—was also unacceptable. I hurt Michail. Deeply. If he can’t trust me enough to have me present for getting his mother’s paintings back, will he be able to forgive me?

I continue my walk as the village by the sea starts to come alive. A couple of children scramble out onto the street, tossing a ball between them. One spies me, shoots a gap-tooth smile, tosses the ball in my direction. I catch it with a laugh and throw it back.

I start to walk again. Then stop, my steps faltering as I recognize the sign hanging a few storefronts down.

It was the mermaid that drew me in first all those months ago. One arm is stretched over the top of the name of the bar, blond hair cascading over her bare breasts. The other lies along her side. Her fingers are splayed against the green of her tail. She smiles down at passersby, a teasing smile that tells people if they continue on without stopping to see what’s inside, it’s their loss.

Even though the sign makes me sad, I try to focus on the happier memories made here. I reach into my purse and pull outmy phone to take a picture. A quick glance at the screen shows a dozen missed calls, all from Michail in the last thirty minutes.

Worry jolts through me. The door to his room was closed this morning, so I assumed he was still sleeping. Is he okay? Did something happen to Sarah?

Before I can dial him back, my phone rings again.

“Michail?”

“Thank God.” His voice is heavy, gruff. “Where the hell are you?”

“Santorini. Where else would I be?”

His breathing comes across the line, harsh and labored. “Your bed was made and your suitcase was gone. I thought you’d left.”

I don’t want to be touched that he was concerned I’d left him. But I am. The worry in his voice is gratifying to hear. It’s not love or trust. But it’s something I desperately need in the wake of his rejection last night.

“No. I make my bed every morning, and my suitcase is in the closet.”

“Where are you? Specifically?”

“Um…” I glance up at the mermaid. I swear she’s laughing at me. I roll my eyes at her. “The bar.”

“The bar?”

“Thebar.”

Silence reigns. Then, at last, he orders, “Don’t move.”

He hangs up. I slide my phone into my purse. I thought I’d have more time this morning, to wander and organize my chaotic thoughts.