Page 132 of The Rival's Obsession
And again.
Slower now. Like we’re trying to make up for the years we lost.
I kiss his lips.
His cheek.
His throat.
“Are you tired?” I murmur against his mouth.
He smirks and shakes his head—but something in the smile falters.
I watch him for a beat, tension laced in the quiet between us.
“What do you need,Lucciolina?” I ask.
I’m patient. I’ll wait.
His throat works around the words. It takes time. He’s trembling, even if just inside. I see it in his eyes. In the way he blinks hard and then finally says?—
“I need to tell you how my mother died.”
16 YEARS AGO
The car ride home is quiet.
Not awkward quiet—just... peaceful.
Mom hums softly, some tune I don’t recognize. The radio’s off. She’s never really needed music when she had her own melodies to carry her through the day.
She already asked the usual how-was-school questions. I gave the usual one-word answers. If Corrine were here, the conversation would’ve gone longer. They would’ve started singing by now—something loud and theatrical. Show tunes or Fleetwood Mac. One of those duets they somehow know every word.
But Corrine stayed home today. Sick, supposedly. She texted me around noon that she was “vomiting sunshine,” which is code for too tired to pretend today.
I didn’t ask questions.
She’s been living with us for almost a year now. Ever since...
Well. Since the day her mom snapped.
People still call it an accident. They whisper it like maybe it wasn’t what it clearly was.
Her mother killed her father.
Tried to kill Corrine.
Tried to kill herself.
But she failed at the last two.
Corrine lived.
And her mother... well, she’s not really alive. Not anymore. Whatever she drank—or took—burned out half her brain. Now she’s just this vacant body. Breathing, blinking, tapping her fingers like some eerie metronome.
Mom says she’s harmless now.
Corrine never talks about it. Acts like none of it happened. Laughs, jokes, plays along with everything.
