Lying in bed, I stare at the clock on the nightstand. I’m so tired and I want to sleep, but I’m too on edge here in Dante’s bed, wondering if he’s going to join me. And if he does, will he have any expectations that we can just go back to having sex every night just because I’m lying next to him. Will he still sleep naked?
I pull the cotton t-shirt down so it covers as much of my body as possible. If I fall asleep, I don’t want to be pressing any of my bare flesh against him. But what if I do though? What if my body just does that in my sleep, like muscle memory? And I wake up draped all over him?
The sound of the door opening makes me hold my breath. Shit! Now he’ll know I’m not asleep because I would be breathing if I was. Dammit, Kat!
I focus on him instead and listen to him as he brushes his teeth in the bathroom. Then the door closes, and I hear him undressing before he climbs into the bed with a sigh. I stay as still as humanly possibly, facing away from him. He always used to always roll onto his side and press his body against my back while sliding an arm around my waist.
But I don’t feel his touch. I don’t feel him move at all and a part of me misses that closeness we used to share. Instead, we both lie on separate sides in complete silence. I have no idea why it makes me feel so sad when it’s exactly what I wanted.
It’s been two weeks since my stay at the hospital. Dante checks in on me twice a day after lunch and dinner, to make sure I have eaten and I’m keeping hydrated, which I am, but other than that, I barely see him or speak to him. He comes to bed each night when he thinks I’m already asleep and we lie next to each other without touching. But on the nights when I wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare, I feel his arms around me for a few moments as he soothes me back to sleep. Then in the mornings, he’s gone again, making me wonder if the comfort of his body was just part of the dream. We are like two ghosts — existing in the same space without any connection.
I talk to Joey a lot. She is keeping me sane right now, because she is the only person I really get a chance to have a conversation with. I call my cousin, Mia, once a week, under Maximo’s supervision. I haven’t told her about the baby yet. It’s still so early and in a lot of ways, it still doesn’t feel real. I have my scan booked in four weeks’ time and maybe I’ll tell her after that.
I wonder how much longer I can go on living this half-life. Not knowing where I stand in the order of things. I feel like a shadow, drifting through this house without actually being in it. Because Dante is the soul of this place, and without him, there is nothing for me here. Maybe when our child is born, I’ll feel like I have some purpose again? But that is still almost seven months away, and I might lose my mind before then. I need to speak to him, if only he would give me a chance to.
I wander down the hallway that leads to his study. The guard gives me a polite nod. We have been doing this dance every day for the past two and half weeks.
“Can I speak with him?” I ask.
“He’s not to be disturbed.”
“Can you tell him I’d like to talk to him when he has a moment?”
“Will do, ma’am.”
I chew on my lip and contemplate just barging through that door and speaking to him anyway. He has no right keeping me here if he’s not even going to speak to me. But the guard is huge and mean-looking and I doubt he’d let me get through that door even if the study was on fire and I was carrying a firehose.
“Thanks,” I mumble and walk away.
Yawning, I make my way along the hallway to head for bed. Joey and I just watched seven episodes of Drag Race, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I knew first trimester tiredness was a kicker, but it’s barely nine p.m.
I hear the sound of laughter before I see them. In fact, it’s not laughter. It’s giggling. High-pitched and squeaky. Dante comes into view, escorting a tall, beautiful brunette with boobs so huge she looks like she’s smuggling two bald men into the house beneath her dress.
He places his hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the large dining room that he barely uses. When the door opens, a chorus of laughter and shouting breaks free from the room. They’re having a party. He’s taking her to a party.
An overwhelming rush of anger blindsides me as if I’ve been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. It’s not just anger though. I’m heartbroken at his cruelty. She runs a hand over his chest and smiles up at him. Then he looks up and catches my eye. This is his chance to walk away from her and run to me, to tell me that this is all some misunderstanding and he’s not about to have sex with that woman tonight. Or one of the other women whose laughter is drifting out of that room. But he doesn’t do that.
He smirks at me.
Tears blur my vision as he disappears into that room with his hand on another woman’s ass.
Dante Moretti can go back to hell, and if he thinks I am ever sharing his bed again, he is sadly mistaken.
