Page 98 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
"You—" Her voice lost that soft layer instantly, something underneath showed through. "Ezio, what the hell do you think you'redoing?! I miscarried for you. My child is gone. I've stood by you all these years, and now, because of that woman who ran off, you're treating me like this?!"
I stopped where I was, back to her.
"That woman," I said, "has nothing to do with this."
"How can she not?!" Her voice shattered completely, went shrill. "You think I don't know? These five years you've never stopped thinking about her, you—"
"Get out, Bianca."
"Ezio—"
"I said, enough."
I turned to look at her, voice not loud, but Bianca froze. She looked into my eyes and finally read what was there.
Silence.
Then her breathing. Fast, uncontrolled.
Then a mess of footsteps.
The second the door closed, the whole apartment went quiet as a tomb.
I stood in the middle of the living room, looking at Bianca's unfinished wine on the coffee table, the magazine she'd been flipping through—opened to a page with a wedding planning ad.
I walked to the bar, poured whiskey, downed a third of it in one go. The amber liquid burned down my throat, temporarily crushing the mess in my chest.
Carmen appeared in the doorway.
"Sir, Miss Juliet's sleeping restlessly. I just checked on her. She's settled now."
I nodded, set down the glass, headed toward Juliet's room.
I pushed the door open gently.
The bedside lamp was on, warm yellow light spilling across the small bed. Juliet clutched a stuffed rabbit, curled into a ball, gold curls scattered on the pillow, dried tears still on her face.
She looked too much like her.
I walked over, pulled the blanket up, covered her exposed shoulder. Her breathing was even, deep sleep, lips slightly parted,occasionally smacking them like she was eating something good in a dream.
I stood by the bed for a while, watching her.
Then I turned, walked out, closed the door softly.
The study light was off.
I walked through the darkness to the back of the bookshelf. Opened that drawer.
Cream-colored.
The sweater wasn't high quality. Regular style from a regular store. Cable knit around the collar, cuffs slightly pilled, like it'd been worn carefully many times. I remembered her wearing it in the courtyard, wind strong, she pulled it closed with both hands against her chest, didn't go in to change, just sat there staring off at something.
I'd walked past that day. Didn't stop.
Now I took out the sweater, lowered my head, closed my eyes, buried my face in it.
Vanilla.
