Page 67 of Of Vows and Betrayal

“As far as the documents are concerned? It’s all real. Judge Johnson signed the papers—real judge, real certificate, real registration with the state. The rest is irrelevant.”

I shake my head, trying to smother the voice telling me to enjoy it. “She’ll never go for it.”

“Don’t tell her,” he says slowly, as if I’m dense.

“We’ve had enough lies.”

He gives me an amused smile. “Okay, Mr. Morals, let’s see if you still think like that when she wakes up,” he says as the car enters my building’s parking lot.

“Thank you,” I say as I open the door, knowing I paid him with my soul for this.

“Oh, by the way, when my man stops by tomorrow, he’ll bring you a list of names. They need to get tapped.”

And so it starts.

“No problem.” I don’t want to argue. I need to get herout of this dress, properly clean the blood from her skin, and hope for redemption.

I carry her to the elevator, each step a heavy reminder of the reality she’ll wake up to—a reality I’ve created with my own hands.

The reality that you caused.My conscience gnaws at me, whispering bitter truths.

When I step into my apartment, Tiago and Derek are already waiting. Tiago’s face pales as he takes in Ophelia’s blood-streaked form. I don’t ask why he’s here; the look on his face tells me he’s reliving a nightmare from fifteen years ago.

“She’s okay,” I mutter, though the words feel hollow. Ophelia is a lot of things right now, butokayisn’t one of them, and it won’t be for a while.

I carry her into the bedroom, my heart aching at the sight of the blood on her dress. This dress, this day—it was supposed to be her wedding, a new beginning, not this nightmare. I lay her gently on the bed, grimacing at the sight of the dress she’s wearing. It’s so unlike her—nothing about the way she looks right now is her.

I hate this dress. I hate the blood on it and what it represents. I reach for the knife in my nightstand, carefully cutting the flimsy material away from her body. Despite the horror of the day, I can’t help but smile at her choice of underwear. Cotton granny panties with bees on them—her bigfuck youto Dario Carmine, no doubt.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper, brushing my lips across her forehead. The touch is bittersweet, likely the last time I can pretend she belongs to me.

In the bathroom, I wet a towel with warm water. On my way back, I grab a T-shirt from my drawer, ready to clean her up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I gently clean the blood from her skin, each stroke a silent plea for forgiveness.

“I’m going to take care of you, love,” I murmur, the words a promise and a prayer. “Please let me take care of you.”

I slide the T-shirt over her head and pull the covers up to her chin. “Please let me love you.” I sigh.

I sit beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, each breath a painful reminder of the fragility of our situation.

My fingers trace the line of her jaw, a touch so light it’s almost a ghost of a caress. “You didn’t choose this,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You didn’t choose me.” The guilt presses down on me, almost suffocating. “But I chose you, Ophelia. I chose you from the moment I saw you in your apron, in your quirky garden. I just didn’t know then.”

If only I realized at that moment, if only…

The room is silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the city outside. I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, the words barely audible. “For everything.”

Her eyelids flutter, but she remains unconscious, lost in whatever dreams the pentobarbital has spun for her. I want to believe that in those dreams, she’s happy, far away from the blood and violence that have marked our reality.

“I wish things were different,” I say softly, my voice cracking. “I wish I could give you the life you deserve. Safe, happy, free from all of these memories.” My thumb brushes over her cheek, wiping away a speckof dried blood. “But I can’t. All I wanted was to keep you as safe as possible, even if it meant doing things you’ll now hate me for.”

I stay by her side for a few more minutes, feeling like I’m in the eye of the storm and trying to soak in the fleeting moments of quiet I’m getting in her presence. I dread the moment she wakes up and faces the new reality. A reality that I’ve shaped with my own hands, for better or worse.

It’s crazy how things can really hit you. I’ve always thought I was a smart man; I built a multimillion-dollar empire, yet right now, I don’t feel smarter than a prepubescent teenager. How did I not see it from the moment I looked into her eyes? Her bravery, her kindness—her whole personality brought life back into mine.

I look at my watch. I can’t keep sulking here. I need to face the new reality and smooth things over as best as I can before she wakes up.

I rest my hand on top of hers, lingering a moment longer, then force myself to stand. With one last look at her peaceful, albeit fragile, form, I walk back into the living room, feeling heavy and tired but knowing I can’t pause now. Derek and Tiago are sitting there with mixed degrees of curiosity and disappointment on their faces.

“Please, make yourself at home,” I snap, eyeing Derek’s beer.

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