It’s more urgent than ever that I find a way out of this situation. I won’t end up like my mother, in love with someone who only brings her pain.
If anything, last night only confirmed that’s what I have waiting for me. Who wants to see their husband come home beaten and bruised? Who wants to worry if he’ll make it home at all?
Not me. This life isnotfor me.
And I can’t risk forgetting that.
Nero’s gaze stays fixed on me. “Maybe when my face looks better, I can make it up to you over dinner. I’ll take you to the best place in town.”
I give my head a hard shake. “This doesn’t change anything, Nero.”
His hopeful expression wavers. “Please. Just one dinner.”
For a maddening second, I consider saying yes, but instead, I force myself to recall the hurt and anger from last night. “Why did you get me that lingerie, Nero?”
His brows knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Did you think I’d wear it for you after you got me the books? Who do you take me for?”
His eyes widen with horror. “What lingerie?”
“The black box. It was filled with it. Did you think we’d just move on like nothing happened?”
His shoulders slump. “Blake, I just told whoever did the shopping to get you clothes. The lingerie… They assumed. You’re my wife, and they assumed.”
I search his face for any sign of deceit but find none.
So it wasn’t his doing.
“Fine. Good,” I grumble.
A few silent seconds pass. “Do you like the books?” he asks.
Of course I do.“How did you know which ones burned?” I clip out.
Sadness flickers over his expression. “Sandro took a photo of your shelves when we came over for Thanksgiving. He sent it to me a while ago.”
Sandro.
Some of my anger begins to melt, but I make myself cling to it. I can’t let myself weaken. “Thank you for the books, but I want to be clear. There won’t be any dinners, any dates. We’re roommates, nothing more. Married in name only, Nero.”
His gaze darkens with displeasure, but I don’t give a damn.
I won’t let him get close to me again.
If I do, I’m afraid he’ll wash away the line I just drew in the sand like a tidal wave.
CHAPTER 9
NERO
I roll my eyes at the text on my phone.
Pick up a coffee for me on your way over. Extra large, splash of oat milk. From Bar Volo. That’s the only one I drink.
What is this? The mob version ofThe Devil Wears Prada? Alessio Ferraro is a fucking diva. The coffee shop he sends me to is on the other side of town.
I get into my car and start driving.
