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This part isn’t so hard to confess. It’s not a secret my father hated me. He’s known it since we met, and it’s not hard to review the facts of my life.
“Go on,” he prompts.
I shift in his lap, but he drags his hands down to my ass to press my hips into his harder. Not a position that works well for focus. “Anyway, he lost her, and I lost everything. From that moment on, the only family I had was Rose. Her mother died alongside mine, and she came to live with us since her father was already dead too. But that part doesn’t apply to this.”
“This? What’s this?”
I take in a long breath and blow it out. “Do you remember the story I told you about helping my father kill a woman? When I confessed my sins, you absolved me…saying I was nothing more than a child and can’t be held liable for my father’s sins.”
He swallows hard and nods, no doubt seeing the pattern of things now. At the very least catching a glimpse of what I’m going to confess to him next.
“I’ve blamed myself for that woman’s death every day since I realized what it meant. You were the first person to tell me it wasn’t my fault. I value that…”
“Valentina…” he warns, his jaw clenching tight. “Get on with it and stop dicking around. Say it.”
My hands shake as I pull them into my chest. Not that I’ll be able to protect myself if he lashes out. “That day I went into your office looking for you. What I found was the answer to a question I’ve been asking myself for years. Who was the woman that day? Who had I helped my father murder?”
His eyes bore into mine, the depth unimaginable. I can’t look away. I can’t breathe. I can’t think…not until I get the rest of my confession out.
“So now you know why I ran. I’m the one who killed your mother. I’m the one who left you to your father’s cruel abuse…It’s all my fault.”
12
ADRIAN
It’s like every fear and failure and nightmare comes spewing out of her pretty little mouth all at once. She says she’s sorry enough times that it’s all she’s mumbling now through tear-soaked lashes and worry-worn lips.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I’m so sorry.”
If she apologizes one more time, I’m going to lose my shit. I gently ease her off my lap and climb off the bed… needing the distance.
In my head, of course, she was a child and innocent of the crimes she confessed. But as a son and a man who misses his mother every single day, it’s so fucking hard to hear.
She’s looking at me for reassurance, or explanation maybe. I can’t give her that. I can only turn away and survey the broken fixtures littering the room. A fitting environment, considering how utterly destroyed I am now, too.
Fuck. Can we come back from this?
I can't even look at her. The thought makes me want to rage all over again. And this time, the storm might not spare her.
“Adrian?” Her voice is whisper soft, another contrast to my own roiling emotions. It hurts even more because she uses my name. She never says my name unless I ask her to… or coax her into it.
I don’t turn around for fear of harming her or saying something I’ll regret later. “Don’t. Stay over there, and I’ll try to talk about this with you again later.”
Her gasp echoes in my head so much louder than her shocked inhale.
Thankfully, she doesn’t utter another word, and I march out of the room, my feet rolling over broken glass. Just to get free.
With nowhere else to go, I head straight for my office. There is a spare closet with some extra clothes. At the very least, I can shove on a pair of pants. Clothing will help if I need to put even more distance between Val and me.
Andrea has gone back to bed. The penthouse is quiet, but inside my head is the opposite. Everything is spinning, trying to realign what I know about my mother’s disappearance, my father’s death, Valentina’s father’s death… all of it. But it’s too much, especially after hours of drinking, finally getting my wife back, and then only a couple of hours of sleep.
My brain and my body are both on edge. If I tip over, everyone will suffer. Most of all Val.
As quickly as possible, I shimmy into a pair of slacks and a white button-down. Then I shrug into a jacket, grab my shoes, and throw myself into the chair behind my desk. Tiny shards of glass are embedded into the sole of my foot.
It takes several minutes, but I remove each of them and slip my socks and shoes over the wounds. Nothing is bleeding enough to consider a doctor. I shoot off a text to the housekeeper because she needs to clean our bedroom before Val suffers further from my anger.
