Page 91 of Thin Lives

But inside, she was a mess of emotions and it made her feel useless most days.

The only bright spot in her life currently was her son—Cross kept her sane. He was the one and only reason she woke up in the mornings, because he always smiled so big when she peered over his large, ornate crib. He had gone from a newborn who barely kept his eyes open, to a six week old that recognized her face in practically a blink.

Sometimes, she wanted to slow down time.

Others, she didn’t know what she wanted at all.

Most days, Emma was stuck in a hazy bubble that felt like she was looking out of a dirty window. Or like maybe she was a dusty, old, forgotten doll placed upon a shelf, waiting for another day to be taken off and played with.

That was, essentially, what her life had been turned into.

She was just a doll.

Affonso’s toy to show off.

Her husband’s thing to own.

Something for others to admire.

Emma had always known this, but it was never more apparent than after the birth of her son when it seemed like even six weeks beyond his birth, guests still regularly showed up unannounced to the house. Affonso expected Emma to be on her best behavior. To him, that meant she was to be quiet, pleasing to both the ear and eye, and she was to be by his side at all times.

Only now, she usually held the baby, too.

It disgusted her.

She was not someone Affonso cared for—neither was Cross, really.

They were simply things he had for people to envy and admire.

Nothing else.

So when nighttime fell, and Emma could put her son down for bed—or as long as it took for him to wake up hungry again—she took the greatest pleasure in locking her bedroom door, and dreaming of something better.

… someone better.

“Did you wear that damn thing today just to see how far you could push me?” Calisto asked.

Emma glanced at him from the passenger seat. “Wear what—what are you going on about?”

“That damn thing.” He waved at her, adding, “That damn dress, Emmy!”

She peered down at the fitted, red dress she had chosen that morning. The skirt ended just above her knees, and it flared wide all the way around. It had been appropriate enough for Affonso not to say anything. And God knew that fucking asshole wouldn’t hesitate to say something if he felt the need.

She couldn’t figure out what the hell Calisto’s issue was.

“There’s nothing wrong with my dress,” she said.

Calisto’s gaze narrowed as he passed her another heated look. “Dolcezza, come on.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “It’s—”

“Red,” he interrupted, his tone thick. “You know I like red. On you, I like it a lot. You know this, Emma.”

Oh.

Well, she hadn’t really thought of that when she’d picked it out. It was just one of the few red dresses that Affonso turned his cheek to. He wasn’t a fan of the color, and he thought it made women look like whores.

Emma figured that said a lot more about Affonso than it did the women who wore the color.