Page 8 of House of Lies

“I’ve told you our marriage is going to change,” I mutter, making my way to the bed in the least threatening manner possible.

I choose the unoccupied side and lie down, crossing my arms beneath my head. Caelia regards me with narrowed eyes, still not lowering the knife. She won’t attack me. She’s contemplating it, but she won’t.

“It’s going to be a long night for you if you plan on standing there, Wildfire.”

“Why are you here, Mattia?”

Soon to be dead, Mattia. I’m entangled in this mess because of him.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come down for dinner,” I remind her. “And I’ve told you we’re going to share a room. You don’t have to like it.”

She hesitates, sitting on the armchair near the window, the knife resting on her thighs. She’s so beautiful, even with a mind full of violent thoughts. I find it strangely captivating.

“I thought it was a cruel joke.”

“Not at all.”

“You can sleep over there, but we’re still going to share a room from now on.”

“Please, Mattia. This house has so many rooms. Can’t I have this one to myself?”

It’s not about this particular room. She yearns for a space of her own—a sanctuary where she can immerse herself in the illusion of safety somewhere free from his torment. I wish I could grant her that, but I’ve traveled too far down this path. I could force her to come downstairs for dinner, but I won’t. I’ll provide her with as much space as my obsession allows.

“No, Wildfire. You can’t.”

“I’d sleep with an eye open if I were you.” She threatens me.

I nod, smiling. I had no illusions that it would be any different. Caelia despises Mattia so intensely that she’d likely kill him, given the opportunity. The overwhelming desire to scream at the top of my lungs that I am not him is so strong that I must close my eyes and regain composure. Silence lingers between us, tense and uncomfortable. She may attempt to kill me in my sleep, but after so many years of confinement, she’d have to be a damn ghost to get close enough.

“What are you reading?” I inquire, and she scoffs, refusing to respond. “How was your day?” No response. “Very well. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Fuck you, Mattia!”

There’s that.

I give up tonight.

CHAPTER 5

Caelia

The most dangerous thing I can do is let my guard down. I feel it slipping away, bit by bit, with each passing day. Four days ago, I left my room, and nothing happened. I spent the morning in the garden, and no one watched me to report back to him. I’m sure he still has eyes on me; he’s just not as obvious anymore. Yesterday, I ventured down to the kitchen while Giuliana was cooking, and when I asked her how her day was, she actually responded to me. Mattia had forbidden her from speaking to me, so I was taken aback and remained silent for a few minutes. Then, she asked me what I wanted to eat instead of simply placing something in front of me.

This is the third week that Mattia has been coming to my room. The second, if I don’t count the one when he was away. He always asks me questions I choose not to answer, and then he goes to sleep. It has been months since he last laid a hand on me. The last time he assaulted me was before he went on his business trip, just before my mother’s birthday. I’m so weary; I spend most of my days sleeping now. My muscles ache, and I groan with every sudden movement. Perhaps sleeping on the floor instead of in the armchair would be better, but I feel less vulnerable there for some reason. I can’t live like this.

Mattia started bringing his laptop with him and working on something. He doesn’t even flinch when I decide to stand up. He keeps typing away while I take cautious, small steps toward the bed, moving on tiptoes, careful not to make too much noise. I may resist him every step of the way, but I’m still afraid of him and what he’s capable of doing to me.

“Just so we’re clear. This doesn’t mean that I agree to any of this,” I tell him as I lie down, positioning myself as close to the edge of the bed as possible.

“Of course not,” he replies without glancing at me.

“I just can’t sleep in that armchair any longer.”

“You lasted longer than I expected.” He grins.

I’ve witnessed his emotions in their most grotesque forms, but he has never smiled at me. There’s a hint of a dimple on his cheek, something I’ve never noticed before. It’s not deep, as he’s not amused enough to reveal it fully.

His long legs are stretched over the covers, his ankles are crossed, and the laptop rests on his lap. He’s my husband, yet he remains a stranger to me. I don’t know who he truly is or what he likes or dislikes. We’ve never shared stories. We’ve never truly connected. I don’t wish to alter these things, but I find them peculiar and heartbreaking.

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