Page 52 of Reign
I nod once because I don’t trust my mouth with anything more. Then, because I am still me and because softness without a knife nearby makes me itch, I say, “Try not to die before I decide whether to forgive you.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Sentimental brat.”
“Old bastard.”
Something like warmth passes between us. Then it is gone, folded away where men like us keep things that are survivable.
I walk back down the frost-covered path toward the car, and with every step I feel the shape of a decision walking beside me. Not made yet. Not fully. But closer.
Five months ago, I asked Vincenzo to stay away so I could figure my shit out.
The cruel part is that I have.
The worst part is knowing that what comes next will either bring us back together or prove that some bullets take eight years to land.
fifteen
Vincenzo
Iknowtheexactmomentdinner is about to become unbearable.
It’s always quiet at first. Arabella and I are halfway through the second course in the smaller dining room since there’s no reason to entertain tonight. A quartet hums softly from hidden speakers because Arabella likes music with dinner when she’s trying to feel civilized.
The food is excellent, the wine is old, and the table is set for intimacy by people who still insist on pretending that marriage automatically makes a room romantic.
It does not.
My wife sits across from me in silk the color of cream, her dark hair pinned up loosely, and diamonds at her ears. She is beautiful in the exact way she has always been; sharp and composed, and too elegant for anyone to mistake her for soft.
I respect her—I have always respected her, but I have never once wanted her. We have made a decent life out of that arrangement by our standards. A political union with anunderstanding. Public affection where needed, private distance where possible. It’s worked because both of us are too pragmatic to demand fairytales from a contract written in other people’s interests.
I know her signs now. The way she stirs her wine instead of drinking it, and how her eyes drift toward one of the empty seats next to her. The way she keeps waiting for me to speak first when she knows I won’t.
So, when she says, “We should talk about children again,” I don’t even bother pretending to be blindsided.
I set my wine glass down carefully and look at her. “Again.”
“Yes, Vincenzo. Again.”
Her words come out brittle, and I can hear the tension underneath. Which means this has been turning over in her mind for a while before she chose tonight to lay it at the table between us.
I should have seen it coming when one of the society wives announced her third pregnancy last week. Another brought a newborn to a charity luncheon Arabella hosted and spent the entire afternoon being congratulated. Our world is cruel to women in polished little ways that men often pretend not to notice because cruelty comes gift-wrapped in etiquette.
“We’ve discussed this—”
“We’ve avoided it,” she cuts in, and I almost smile at the accurate phrasing.
Wehaveavoided it. Deliberately and efficiently. The same way we avoid discussing what she does on nights she does not come home until past midnight. The same way I avoid telling her where my mind goes when I wake from dreams already half in mourning.
There are many things that keep a marriage functional if both people never drag them directly into the light.
“Arabella,” I say, and my own voice is even enough to irritate me. “We’ve tried everything. You know the outcome will be the same.”
I know the second the words leave my mouth, I’ve spoken too bluntly, but bluntness is the only form of honesty I’ve ever trusted. Softer men might have found a gentler language, but I am not a soft man.
Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wineglass. “You could say it less clinically.”
“Would that change anything?”
