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For you, Carlo.
But I don’t want this. It’s wrong.
Wrong is a matter of opinion.
It was Carlo’s worst nightmare. He took comfort in the inflexibility of true morality. It was one of the reasons he’d known he had to marry Jane. She was good and pure and sweet and innocent, and he could not have been with her without honouring her properly. To imagine wrong being a matter of opinion was anathema to him.
He woke with a start, and sat upright in his bed.
A sliver of silver moonlight punctuated the darkness of the room, shining a rectangle of light across the foot of his bed. He reached out and ran his fingers through it, trying to catch the magic of the night in his hands.
It shone and glittered, like stardust on a wave. Or blonde hair.
With a muffled groan, he looked across at the empty pillow beside him. Jane’s pillow.
And he had to see her. It was still the middle hours of the night. Not midnight, not dawn. That interminable stretch in between, reserved for the deepest of sleep. But he was not asleep, and he wanted to see her. Just for a moment. A snatch of a glimpse, to reassure himself that she was safe. Unharmed.
He threw the covers from his naked frame and pulled a pair of grey boxer shorts on. Her room was two flights up; he took the stairs at a fast pace, and walked quickly down the corridor, until he reached her closed door.
For the briefest of moments, he hesitated. After all, this was her private room. He had no real right to tiptoe across the threshold. But his need to see her outweighed any other concerns he might have had.
He turned the door knob and pushed the door inwards. Her bed, centred in the room, was in complete darkness. He didn’t wish to disturb her. Slowly, he moved across the carpeted floor, until he was close enough to see properly.
But the bed was empty.
He spun around on the spot, towards the ensuite. It, too, was pitch black. His pulse was a raging torrent in his ears as he strode across the room and flicked the lights on. Jane’s bed was made. She had not slept in it.
Heart beating like a jackhammer, he strode out of the room and into the one beside it.
No Jane.
He checked every room in the top two floors before he finally gave into a sense of panic.
But no one could have broken into his home. The security was almost presidential. And she could not have left without his being alerted. So she had to be somewhere. Didn’t she?
He groaned softly and moved through his own floor of the residence, before moving swiftly downstairs, to the first floor.
He checked every room, and finally, saw it. A faint light beneath the kitchen door. He pushed it inwards, not even bothering to be quiet now. He was terrified, for the first time in his life. True fear had spiked his veins with adrenalin, and he did not like it.
Jane was sitting at the kitchen bench, her head in her hands. She looked up when he entered, her blue eyes heavy in her face.
“Are you okay?” He asked, the angry tirade he’d been about to deliver evaporating when he saw her weary features.
She nodded quietly. “I… couldn’t sleep.”
He moved across the kitchen, and came to stand beside her. His chest was heaving with the rise and fall of his breathing. “Why not?”
She shrugged, and toyed with her fingers in her lap.
“Jane?” He prompted, when she remained quiet.
When she looked at him, her eyes were moist. “I guess it’s being back here. Talking about the past. I feel like I’m back where I was, three years ago.” She shrugged. “It’s just weird.”
“You’ve been crying.”
She sobbed. “No I haven’t.”
His smile was unexpectedly kind. He reached out and padded a thumb across her cheek, wiping away the residual moisture there.
