Page 3 of Fractured Empire

“Rest assured, Leon,” she spits out. “You won’t have to live like this for much longer. You don’t need to worry about divorce. We only have like a year left at this point. I expect you can find yourself a replacement for me shortly after that. One who wants to talk to you, and to fuck you. Congratulations.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, head shaking in confusion.

“You don’t have to get a divorce when your wife is dying, Leon!”

A soft ringing meets my ears, and I know I must have misheard her.

“What?”

She laughs, eyes becoming watery. “Do you think Rayna will still be single by the time I die or should I try to make it sooner for your convenience? Will you still feel guilty about wanting to fuck her when you’re a widower instead of a husband?”

My frustration quickly morphs into something darker. “Don’t fuck with me, Cleo. What are you talking about? Dying?”

If she’s startled by my abrupt change in tone, she doesn’t show it.

“She already raised her brother,” Cleo tacks on, lips twisting into a spiteful smirk. “Are you sure she’d want to raise two more boys who aren’t hers? You might want to pick a different candidate when the time comes. Besides, Apollo will get to her before you do, won’t he? The oldest brother always wins the girl.”

“Stop talking about Rayna!” I bark, loud and deep. “I already told you, this has nothing to do with her. If we got divorced, I wouldn’t be pursuing her. You just told me that you’re fucking dying, Cleo. You better start explaining right fucking now.”

“Don’t wake the boys up,” she mutters, dropping back down onto the couch. Her amused anger seems to have drained right out of her body, leaving only emptiness in its wake. “You should sit.”

“I’m not going to sit. Explain yourself, Cleo.”

“Suit yourself, you’re only going to get more upset as it is. ” She shrugs, looking up at me and exhaling slowly. “I have Juvenile Huntington’s Disease. I was nine when I was diagnosed. Life expectancy for JHD is ten to fifteen years after onset. It can be fatal within ten years, depending on symptom severity. My doctors have agreed that I don’t have much longer since my symptoms have been getting worse for the past couple of years.”

She reports every bit of information like a robot, not a hint of emotion in her tone. And yet each word hits me like a ton of bricks. I want to tell her to take it back, to say it’s some sick joke to punish me for almost cheating on her. But I know it with every fiber of my being, Cleo isn’t lying.

She doesn’t care to punish me, because she doesn’t care about me.

She doesn’t care about anything—save for her sons.

She’s dying, and she figures, why should she?

“Why would you keep this from me? This whole time…I didn’t even know that you had a condition—” A condition I know very little about, but still know is fatal. A neurodegenerative disorder that makes the nerve cells in the brain break down over time. Her brain has literally been dying since she was nine, and I had no clue.

“Of course you didn’t,” she cuts in hastily. “My parents wouldn’t have it any other way. Do you think they could have snagged a Moretti man for an alliance otherwise? Certainly not such a high ranking one. What mafia would agree to a defective bride? I’ve been hiding the condition since the day I was diagnosed.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, mouth dropping open. “Your parents made you⁠—”

Again, she interrupts me before I can finish. “My parents made me marry you for money and connections. Why are you surprised they would condition me to be the perfect candidate to win a Moretti?”

“Cleo, those things are two entirely different versions of fucked up.”

“Maybe to you.” She narrows her eyes. “To me, this is just reality. This has always been my life. There’s no sense in dwelling on it.”

When I don’t respond quickly enough, she huffs.

“If you’re waiting for me to apologize, you’ll be waiting a long time. You should be thanking me for keeping my distance all these years. Now when I die, you won’t be losing someone you loved.”

She didn’t want to get to know me, knowing she’d never live a full life with me.

How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that?

“And before you ask, Bastian is fine. I had him tested right after he was born. He doesn’t have the gene. He won’t pass it to his future children, and he’ll never have to deal with the disease himself. I wouldn’t have been able to hide this from you if he had the gene. I could keep it quiet when it was just me, but I couldn’t keep our son’s medical information from you.”

It’s hereditary.

Oh fuck, I didn’t even think⁠—