Page 234 of Stalking Ginevra

He rises off the sofa, filling my small living room with the oppressive weight of his presence. I dig my heels into the linoleum, refusing to be cowed.

“What were you doing last night with Marcello Demartini?” he asks.

I cross my arms, refusing to give ground. “After everything you’ve done—after the months of silence—you think you have the right to question me?”

His jaw tightens. “You are my wife?—”

“You don’t get to interrogate me, and you sure as hell don’t get to come here, acting like I’m your possession.”

He closes the distance, standing before me like the Roman god of intrusive husbands. I grind my teeth. Things were so much easier when we were both little, when I was capable of shoving him backward. Now, all I have to fight with are words.

“I gave you space to recover, not to go on dates with other men.”

I laugh, the sound bitter and harsh. “Do you think ignoring me for months counts as progress? You’ve done nothing to fix what you broke.”

He frowns. “I’ve been trying. Therapy, self-control—it’s all for you.”

“Did I ask you to see a shrink? All I wanted was honesty. No more manipulation. No more mind games. Why was that too much for you?”

His shoulders stiffen as if bracing against my words. The air between us thickens with menace before he steps ever closer. “Answer the question,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, “Or I’ll ask Demartini myself.”

Dread clenches my stomach. Mars doesn’t deserve to get dragged into this mess. “He’s a friend.”

“What kind?” His voice drops, low and threatening.

“The kind who can’t be bought to mess with my life,” I snap. “And I thought everyone knew he’s gay.”

His eyes widen.

The silence that follows is almost deafening. For once, Benito is caught off guard, and it feels like a small victory. But it’s not enough.

“You’ve got your answers. Now, get out.”

He doesn’t move. His dark eyes search mine, and for a moment, I see something that almost looks like regret. But regret isn’t change, and neither is his disappearing act.

“What about us?” he asks.

“Forgiveness must be earned, Benito,” I snap, mirroring something he said months ago. “And you won’t get it by bulling your way back into my life.”

Leaning even closer, he inhales slow and deliberate, as if committing my scent to memory. Tingles prickle along my skin, and I suppress a shiver.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “And I’m yours. Whether you want me or not.”

ONE HUNDRED SIX

BENITO

I leave Ginevra’s apartment feeling less tense than I did earlier, but it still rankles that she spends time with another man.

Jealousy gnaws at my gut, tearing through the last shreds of my patience. It doesn’t matter if Demartini is gay. It should be me taking Ginevra to restaurants, me making her laugh, me plying her with drink.

I drive home in a daze, my mind spinning with possibilities. Despite every word Dr. Saint has fed me, was it a mistake to give Ginevra so much space? Space that’s now being filled by another man.

The thought is a thorn twisting in my side. Marcello might not be a threat, but who’s to say the next man won’t be? Someone charming enough, kind enough, patient enough to draw her away from me for good.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as the car winds up Alderney Hill. Every instinct screams at me to intervene, to show Ginevra—and the world—that she’s mine. But I force down thethought, gripping the remnants of my control. There will be no more mistakes.

Shit. I need a distraction before I spiral into old habits, undoing everything I’ve worked for.

---