It’s a container, square in shape and decorated with engraved vines that sparkle as I hold it up to the light. A jewelry box?
I flick a clasp along the side to open it, only to find a stack of neatly folded papers filling the space. As I stroke the top page, two distinct smells pepper the dust-choked air. The first is lighter, floral? But the second… My nostrils tingle as I inhale it, a deeper, richer scent.
I’d forgotten that he used to smell like this. Like masculine cologne and cigar smoke and the hint of peppermint-scented aftershave. I used to drink in the stench, sitting at his feet while he pored over documents in his study. This handwriting might even be his, but these missives don’t look like they correspond to business.
A floorboard creaks from the direction of the hall, and I stiffen, running through the likely suspects. Luciano? The little girl? Donatello?
The latter is the most likely. He’ll be chomping at the bit to taunt me, I assume. Throw last night in my face.
Are you so eager to be corrupted, little wife?
I cringe at his imagined voice, shaking my head to clear it. Still crouched, I wait for the door to fly open, revealing him behind it.
Another step breaks the silence. Thud.
Another. Thunk…
That one was further away. Several more steps confirm my suspicion, and I sigh in relief—whoever the culprit is, they’ve retreated down the hall.
But I’m not naïve enough to think he won’t come back.
Whatever these letters might contain, examining them within Donatello’s orbit feels too dangerous. The air is too thick in here. Too heavy.
I find my gaze drawn to the window, feeling reckless enough to jump from it. Anything just to breathe without inhaling him too.
Instead, I tuck the box beneath the bedframe, removing the topmost letter. Then I approach the door, pressing my ear to the wood before easing it open. Luckily, the hall is empty, and I slip out before the lurker returns.
It’s too early for the dawn light to have penetrated the house’s interior. Everything is quiet, bathed in shadow, like some twisted version of purgatory.
Once I reach the first floor, the itching need to be outdoors feels even stronger—but I know better than to risk leaving through the front door. Turning on my heel, I navigate the hallway to the kitchen. Here, a battered screen door bars the access to the yard, easily unlocked.
I ease it open, my lungs swelling with the crisp morning air. Despite my aching muscles and bare feet, I sense I could still run if I wanted. Take off through the close-set trees and never look back.
I only let the fantasy dwell for a minute before turning my attention to the letter.
In the end, I don’t go far, staying on the porch. My toes flex against the peeling wood as I scan the lonely yard beyond it. This section of the house is just as aged as the rest, the lawn overgrown and empty. A pale bit of sunlight pierces the cloud cover, and the fresh air displaces some of the tense atmosphere. Leaning against the siding, I lift the letter, straining to read in the overcast light.
You have no idea how much I love you, do you? The author wrote, their passion evident in every stroke of ink. My cheeks heat, sensing the intimacy before I even read on. How much I crave being inside you, every goddamn minute of the day. It’s the only time I ever feel peace…
I rip my gaze up to the sky, feeling my heart hammer against my ribcage.
He wrote this to Olivia. His unique touch is evident from the strokes of ink to the deliberate way it was folded. The care recalls a thoughtfulness so different from the man he is now. A man who prides himself in always maintaining his control. Who denies his own lust merely to prove a point.
He didn’t always. He used to confess his desire on paper for anyone to read…
Because he loved her, that cruel inner voice insists. Just like he loved the idea of sweet, little Safiya—not you. Never you...
“She’s not in the room.” The present-day Donatello’s voice booms like thunder, startling a flock of birds from a nearby tree. “Where the hell is she?”
I whip around, expecting him to barge through the back door, but the kitchen is empty. The next second, a series of distant thuds betray his location—storming through the upstairs—and he isn’t alone. A familiar voice rings out, the tone soothing. Fabio?
That’s right. We’re to meet with Mischa to discuss our sham of a marriage today. On its face, the idea would seem comical if it weren’t so tragic. Or strategic. When all is said and done, Donatello stands to gain more than revenge. Namely, leverage and power—two tools I’ve come to find that all men cherish.
On the other hand, I’ll have lost the most.
“Where the hell did she go?” He sounds closer, downstairs now, probably in the hall right beyond the kitchen. “Get a van ready. She fucking ran.”
His murderous inflection sends a thrill through me. She ran. Just what might he do to this figurative Willow who dared to escape him? I almost wish that I had run. That I was out racing through the woods like hell, heading back to my family.
Anywhere but here.
This house holds only misery and confrontation. If I stay, I’ll have to face more than our “engagement.” I’ll have to see him for the first time since last night, but I’m nowhere near prepared for that moment.
Will he ignore it?
Pretend it never happened?
Or will he give Fabio and everyone within earshot a verbal play-by-play…
“I knew this was a stupid fucking plan,” Donatello continues to gripe, sounding clearer than ever. I swallow hard. If I had to guess, he’s only paces away. “And you
