Page 7 of The Marriage Debt

He’s barefoot, wearing one of those too-small sweatshirts with the sleeves chewed at the cuffs. His hair’s sticking up on one side, like he’s been rolling around on the couch. He must’ve been standing there for a while—watching the doors, waiting for someone. For me.

I say nothing.

He shadows me as I move through the hall, like a dog waiting for scraps. Not close enough to touch, but always there. I let him. He follows me through the corridor, past the portrait gallery, into the kitchen. I grab the bourbon, pour just enough to burn, and set the bottle down without looking at him.

He climbs onto the barstool and rests his chin on his folded arms like this is routine. Like this is his house. He looks exactly like my brother—large, round eyes, dark hair—hauntingly so.

“You’re not as loud as Daddy,” he says.

“No,” I say, “I’m not.”

His eyes sweep down to my wrist. “You wear the same watch.”

I glance at it. A gift from my father. Real gold. Heavy. Anton bought a knockoff, wore it like it meant something. Never had any sense in his head. It’s the reason I'm the wearer of my great-grandfather's watch, not Anton.

Lev stares at it like he’s trying to unlock something from the shape. “Are we staying here forever?” he asks.

“You are.” My voice is even. “Your mother has her own decisions to make.”

He nods like he understands, which he doesn’t, but it’s not a lie. If she runs, she runs without him. As I told her—the boy stays.

“She always stays,” he adds, voice soft.

I toss the rest of the bourbon back and feel it settle like lead in my chest.

Behind me, footsteps approach. Lila. She steps into the doorway like a storm cloud—arms folded, robe tight, jaw set. But she doesn’t speak.

She sees him sitting there, close enough to touch me if he wanted to, and she says nothing. “You're letting him trail you now?” she asks after a beat.

“I’m not letting him do anything.” She's a strange one. Something in her tugs at something in me, but I can't put my finger on what it is yet. Desire? Attraction? Mild amusement? More?

She huffs, but it’s tired. “He does this when he doesn’t know what he’s feeling.”

“Then he fits in just fine.”

She doesn’t rise to it, just watches. Lev slides off the stool and goes to her. She rests a hand on his mop of dark hair, but he keeps looking at me like he wants me to say something else. Like he’s waiting for another piece of the puzzle.

I don't have one to give a boy. But if he were a man…

They turn to go, and just before they leave the kitchen, Lev twists back toward me. “You smell like rain,” he says.

Then he disappears around the corner with her.

I stay where I am. The room feels colder without them in it. I take out my phone again. One more check on the school feed. One more message from Alessio confirming the judge’s arrival at noon.

Then I close it.

The silence stretches, heavy and full of ghosts.

Anton’s boy. In my house. Watching me like he’s waiting to see if I’m going to become something worse—or something better.

Before bed, I walk the halls. Not because I expect anything but because this is what I do. This house has long hallways and corners that hold secrets. I don’t leave them unchecked. The guards nod as I pass, one stationed at the main landing, another near the staff entrance. Their hands are clasped in front of them, suits crisp, eyes alert. Men who know not to speak unless they’re told. Men who understand what failure costs.

Upstairs, the lights are low. The hush of night settles over the house like a warm blanket. Different now with company beneath the roof.

I pause outside his door.

Lev’s room is quiet except for the sound of her voice drifting through the half-open frame. She’s singing. Something old, something gentle. The language is soft, Italian, and full of memory. The kind of song mothers once sang before the world got loud.

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