Page 59 of Of Lies and Shadows

“You’re allowed to buy things for yourself,” he says quietly.

I ignore that. “The orientation went well. A lot of documents, schedules, policies. I’ll organize them into a folder by Monday so you can look over everything… or pass it on to whoever replaces me.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

His expression hardens, the faint hint of warmth vanishing.

“What replacement?” His tone sharpens in an instant.

I hesitate for only a second too long before answering. “I assumed that eventually, you’d find a proper wife. Someone fitting.”

“Fitting for what?”

“For you. For this house. For the image. Isn’t that what all of this is?” I gesture vaguely between us. “Temporary.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Not anger exactly, something murkier. Something messier.

“You think I’d replace you like staff?” he asks, his tone calm but dangerous. “Like a broken vase or a maid who overstepped?”

“But isn’t that exactly what I am?” I say with resolve. “A punishment. That’s what you told me I was the night you married me. You didn’t choose a wife, Dante. You chose a sentence.”

His jaw tightens, that familiar tic pulsing at his temple. “I did what I had to do. You’re the one who lied. The one who spied.”

I lift my hands, a quiet surrender laced with exhaustion. “Yes. Of course. You’ve been so generous in your cruelty. Ican hardly keep up with the gratitude.”

The silence pulses between us, thick with everything we’ll never say.

“I’m just… waiting,” I continue softly. “For the day you get tired of your little war prize and find someone who fits better on your arm. Someone worthy of the Forzi name.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.

“I’ve arranged everything for the children. Their schedules, supplies, school files. That’s my only focus now. I’ll do my job until you release me. But don’t pretend this is something it’s not.”

I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not your wife, Dante. I’m your punishment. Your nanny. Your maid. Your?—”

“Enough,” he snaps, but his voice isn’t as sharp as it used to be. It sounds almost… winded.

“So what? You’re just going to go full martyr now? Saint Francesca, Nanny Killjoy?” He says it like a man trying to claw his way back to having the upper hand. But he’s too late. The damage is already done.

The name almost makes me laugh. Almost. I lift my chin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Tempting title. But I can’t be Nanny Killjoy”—I offer a brittle smile—“because there’s no joy left in this house to kill.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, I think he might say something real. But then his jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, guilt, maybe. Or self-loathing. And then his voice drops, low and ugly. “I think I might visit your room tonight.”

The air leaves my lungs. My throat tightens, but I don’tflinch. I meet his gaze with all the cold control I can muster. “You do as you must,” I say simply. “It’s your house. Your bed. Your whore.”

His breath catches. It’s sharp, like a wound he didn’t expect to feel. But I don’t wait to see how deep it cuts.

I turn and collect the brushes, stacking them one by one. Calm. Methodical. Behind me, the silence stretches. When I finally glance back, he’s gone.

And I stand there in the quiet, trembling slightly but still standing. Still breathing. Still me.

Children are exhausting.And I mean that in the best possible way. They’re loud and demanding and full of questions I don’t always have the answers to. But their chaos is honest. Their needs are simple. They don’t lie or manipulate or punish love.

And thank God for that.

Because by the time they’re finally tucked in and asleep, I have nothing left. Not even the energy to spiral into my usual overthinking. No dread, no rage, no grief tonight, just bone-deep fatigue.

And all I want is a shower. Hot water. Silence. My bed.

---