The tea was getting cold.
Neither of us cared.
Alessandro's hand stayed at the nape of my neck, thumb brushing the fine hairs there like he was trying to memorize the feel of me before I vanished again. His breathing was shallow, uneven. I could feel the war inside him.
I pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Why did you lie?" My voice cracked on every word. "Two years, Alessandro. You told me your name was Alex Reed. You said you were just a lieutenant on leave. You let me believe we could have a normal life. Why?"
For a second the mask slipped completely. Pain flooded his eyes, raw and bleeding.
Then he rebuilt the wall brick by brick.
For one perfect, heartbreaking second, his lips were a breath from mine. I could feel the surrender in his body, the weight of two years of loneliness about to crash down. His hand tightened on my neck, pulling me the final inch—
And then he froze.
His eyes snapped open. The raw pain was gone, replaced by a terrifying, calculated coldness. It was like watching a fortress gate slam shut.
He shoved himself away from me so hard he stumbled back a step.
"No," he whispered, not to me, but to himself. "This is how they win. This is how I get you killed."
He dropped his hand and stepped back.
"Because it was never real," he said, voice flat, cruel. "We were nothing. A weekend mistake. It meant nothing."
The words hit harder than any slap.
I staggered back until my spine hit the edge of the desk. The teacup toppled, rosehip tea bleeding across priceless documents like blood.
"Nothing?" I whispered. "You married me. You cried when you put the ring on my finger. You said—"
"I said what you needed to hear so you'd open your legs," he cut in, cold, merciless. "Don't romanticize it, Lia. You were convenient. And then you weren't."
I couldn't breathe.
Every memory (his hands shaking while he buttoned my wedding dress, the way he laughed into my neck when I called him husband for the first time, the quiet "I found home" he murmured against my skin at 4 a.m.) turned to ash in my mouth.
I pressed a hand over my mouth to keep the sob inside.
He watched me break, and his fists clenched so hard I heard the knuckles crack.
His jaw worked. Veins stood out on his forearms. He took one step toward me, then another, like the floor was on fire.
I saw it happen in slow motion: his hand lifted, reaching for my face, trembling violently. His fingers hovered an inch from my cheek, close enough that I felt the heat of them.
He was going to touch me.
He was going to break and pull me into him and tell me it was all a lie.
But at the last second he curled his fingers into a fist and let it fall.
The mask slammed back into place, harder than before.
"Get out," he said, voice dead.
I couldn't move.
He turned his back to me, shoulders rigid. "I said get out.
Tears blurred everything. I fumbled for the door handle, yanked it open.
In the hallway stood a man I hadn't noticed before. Tall, broad, early thirties, dressed in the black tactical uniform of the royal guard. Dark hair cropped short, scar slicing through one eyebrow. He was leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, but his sharp green eyes were locked on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
He didn't even pretend he hadn't been watching the entire thing.
I fled past him, head down, choking on sobs.
Behind me the door slammed shut.
I didn't see him in the reflection of a gilded mirror farther down the corridor, Alessandro, forehead pressed to the closed door, fist pounding once, silently, against the wood like he was punishing himself.
The new bodyguard pushed off the wall and followed me at a distance, silent, curious, dangerous.
I didn't stop until I reached the service stairs and collapsed on the bottom step.
My wedding ring burned against my chest like a brand.
And somewhere above me, locked in that study, I knew Alessandro was breaking too.
I just didn't know how much longer either of us could survive it.
As I stood on shaking legs and wiped my face, preparing to disappear into the servants' quarters, I heard it.
Soft. Barely audible through the thick door.
His voice, raw and trembling, like a prayer and a curse at the same time:
"You shouldn't have come back, Lia…"
I froze.
He couldn't have known I was still listening.
But he'd said it anyway.
Like he was begging the universe.
Or warning me.