Chapter 2

Vincent came home the next evening.

His expression wasn't pleasant. The moment he walked in, he frowned and asked me, "Why didn't you come find me last night?"

In the early hours of the morning, Vanessa had posted a video on social media, teasing Vincent about losing the bet.

In the video, Vincent's face was blank, but you could tell his mood was foul. Only that flash of irritation was quickly suppressed.

Facing Vanessa's camera, he put on an air of indifference.

"Whatever. If she doesn't come today, tomorrow's the same."

But today, I still hadn't made a move.

Hadn't gone to find him. Hadn't sent him a message.

I suppose he finally couldn't understand why, this time, I hadn't reached out first. That's why he came back.

"Why would I come find you?" I set down my phone and looked up at him.

Vincent froze, as if he hadn't expected me to answer with a question.

Then, as though something clicked, he let out a short laugh.

"Trying a new tactic this time?"

"No," I said. "I just figured things out."

He stared at me.

I said calmly, "If it wasn't my fault, why am I always the one who has to back down?"

This fight started because I found lipstick on the collar of Vincent's shirt.

It was Vanessa's.

Not long after Vincent came home, Vanessa sent me a message—a saccharine apology. She said she'd accidentally smudged her lipstick on Vincent's clothes, told me not to take it to heart, told me not to fight with Vincent over it.

I'd only asked Vincent a couple of extra questions.

After that, it became a full-blown argument.

My ninth fight with Vincent. Once again, because of Vanessa.

A year ago, Vanessa came into his life and became his underboss.

She'd handled trouble at the docks with him, taken a bullet meant for him during an assassination attempt, and walked out alive with him from a failed negotiation. Everyone in the Moretti family knew that Vanessa was one of Don Vincent's most trusted people.

From that point on, Vincent and I had our first real fight.

After the first came the second, the third.

And now, the ninth.

I'd once asked Vincent to reassign Vanessa, to stop letting her accompany him to family meetings, the docks, the private clubs.

What had he said?

He said my mind was filthy. That without a legitimate reason, he couldn't possibly punish someone who'd bled for the family just because of my suspicions.

"What do you mean?" Vincent frowned.

I didn't answer him. I just looked into his eyes and asked, "Vincent, in your eyes, is the reason I'm good to you because I have no self-respect in relationships?"

He didn't speak.

Silence was an answer in itself.

Even though I'd known all along, in that moment, something in my chest hollowed out.

I'd been loving him.

But in his eyes, that love was cheap and laughable.

The long messages I wrote him could be casually shown to Vanessa—he even let her reply on his behalf.

Every time I backed down first, it could be turned into a bet with his men.

"You came to find me yesterday?" Vincent finally put it together.

He'd also guessed that I'd heard everything.

I didn't deny it.

"Yes. I went. And I heard all of it."

"So that's it." Vincent's expression barely changed. He just said, "No wonder you've been acting so different today."

Then he smiled.

"It was just a joke."

In Vincent's mouth, everything was a joke.

Acting intimate with Vanessa at the family dinner—a joke.

Posting Vanessa's photos on social media—a joke.

Losing a game and letting Vanessa kiss him—a joke.

Even betting on me, mocking the fact that I'd never leave—that was a joke too.

So what wasn't a joke?

He'd never once coaxed his own girlfriend, but he'd coax his underboss.

Was that a joke too?

Seeing that I wasn't speaking, Vincent's expression finally softened a fraction.

"Don't take it so seriously. Everyone was just talking. It's over now, and no one's going to remember."

"You sent Vanessa flowers and bought her bags to make her feel better, right?"

Three years together. Vincent had never once lowered his head for me.

Saying it didn't hurt would be a lie.

After all, it was three years of love.

"That's what this is about?" Vincent said. "Vanessa is my underboss. She has to go out with me to meet clients, attend events, sit with the Dons from other families. Buying her a bag is about making her presentable. As for the flowers..."

He paused.

"I just picked them up on the way. She made a mistake on a deal, I said a few things, she was in a bad mood, so I smoothed things over."

"Smoothed things over"—those words cut like glass.

On our first day together, he told me he didn't know how to coax people.

So I accommodated him in everything. I never argued with him lightly.

But it wasn't that he didn't know how.

He just wouldn't do it for me.

My throat felt blocked by something. It was a long time before I managed to say, quietly, "Okay. I understand."