Luca's pov

The house was quieter now. My parents would be leaving in the morning, their expectations left behind like ghosts stitched into the marble of this mansion. They’d played their roles—praised Ira’s manners, admired her grace, reminded me of legacy and appearances. I’d done my part. Held her hand at dinner. Let my mother braid her hair. Kissed her temple in the hallway with eyes watching.

But now, the house belonged to us again. And I was done pretending.

My mother, before retiring, gave one last order.

> “Let her sleep in your room, Luca. She’s your wife now. Don’t shame the bed that made you.”

I had smiled and nodded.

But even as I waited in the darkness of my bedroom, drink in hand, shirt undone, I knew what this night would bring.

---

The door creaked open slowly. I didn’t look up, just stared at the amber swirl in my glass.

Ira entered like she was stepping into a lion’s den, her nightdress clinging to her like sin. She paused when she saw me, lips parted, unsure. Good.

"Don’t touch me," I said without turning.

She flinched. I could hear it in the silence.

"Just lie down. Don’t speak. Don’t move."

I finished my drink, placed the glass on the table, and finally looked at her. She sat on the far side of the bed, back stiff, fingers twisting the bedsheet like it might save her.

She looked… small.

A moment passed. Then another. I noticed the way her shoulders trembled—not from fear. From cold.

I rose slowly and walked over. She didn’t look up.

I pulled the extra blanket from the chair and dropped it gently over her shoulders.

> "You want softness? Earn it."

I said it low. Sharp. But even I didn’t believe the venom behind it.

I turned, walked to my side of the bed, and lay down, keeping my back to her.

That night, we didn’t touch. But neither of us slept.

---

A few hours passed.

She thought I was asleep. I wasn’t.

I heard her get up and move toward the mirror. Slowly. Quietly. As if she wanted the shadows to eat her.

The rustle of fabric. Her breathing.

I cracked one eye open. Watched her through the reflection.

She stood in front of the mirror like she didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

Then she whispered, to herself:

> "This isn’t who I was... but it’s who I have to be."

Something splintered.

And I hated it.

I hated the way her voice cracked. I hated the way my chest burned. I hated that she still had pieces I hadn’t broken.

I closed my eyes again. Tighter.

She crawled back into bed like a ghost, silent and slow.

And I wanted to roll over. Grip her waist. Tell her to stop whispering things that haunted me more than her screams ever could.

But I didn’t.

I stayed still. Because if I moved, I might

admit what I couldn’t afford to feel.

And I wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.