Page 9 of The Marriage Debt

My heart stops.

I don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe. I stare ahead, gripping the edge of my chair so tightly my fingers ache. I don’t dare look at him. I don’t know what I’ll do if I do. I feel Mother's eyes harden on me, watch Marcella's head rise in my periphery. My stomach feels like the Titanic.

The mediator nods like this is just another item on the checklist. “And you’re currently cohabiting?”

“Yes. The boy lives with us in a secured residence. I handle all security and financial affairs. Lila handles his day-to-day care.”

Lila. Not “my wife.” Not even “my wife, Lila.” Just Lila. Like this is all deeply personal. Like I’m really the woman of his affection, the bride of his heart.

My mind races.What is he doing? Why didn’t he tell me?

The mediator turns to me, and for a second I forget how to breathe. “Mrs. Rossi, can you confirm what Mr. Rossi has said?”

The silence stretches too long.

I feel my mother’s cold, calculating eyes on me. She smells blood. She knows something’s off. And if I deny this, if I so much as flinch, she’ll pounce.

So I do the only thing I can. I nod. “Yes. That’s correct.”

My voice comes out clean—years of practice lying to Anton—but inside, I’m screaming. Mateo doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to. He already knows I won’t betray myself—not here, not in front of her.

The mediator finishes his notes. “Given what’s been presented, and assuming this living arrangement remains stable, the court may not see a need to escalate to a formal custody trial.”

He closes the file and stands. “We’ll reconvene in sixty days.”

Mateo stands first. I follow. His hand finds the small of my back—subtle pressure, a silent reminder of how terrifyingly powerful this man is.

The moment we’re out of the mediator’s office, I yank my arm from Mateo’s grip and storm ahead of him. My heels echo across the concrete floor of the parking garage like gunshots. The air down here is damp and sour, like gasoline and rotting metal. Fitting, considering I feel like something’s died inside me.

He doesn’t hurry to catch up. Of course he doesn’t. Mateo Rossi doesn’t chase anyone.

“You lied,” I snap, spinning around to face him just as we reach the car. “You lied through the entire goddamn hearing.”

He raises a brow, calm as ever. “I told the truth that mattered.”

“You said we were married.”

“We will be.”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

I move toward him before I can stop myself, fury curling inside my chest like smoke before a fire. “You blindsided me,” I hiss. “You used me in there.”

“If it helps you keep your son,” he says coolly, “maybe it doesn’t matter how it sounds.”

His indifference is gasoline, and I’m the match. My hand flies before I can think. The slap cracks loudly in the concrete hush of the garage. My palm stings from the impact, but the second I feel the heat of his hand wrap around my wrist, I know I’ve gone too far.

He grips me—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me who he is.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp. His eyes pin me in place. “I’m not Anton.”

“No,” I breathe, yanking my arm back. “You’re worse. At least Anton didn’t pretend to give a damn.”

Something flickers behind his eyes, something ugly, something hollow. He leans in just enough that I feel his breath on my cheek.

“If you want it to feel real,” he murmurs, “stop looking at me like that.”

The words land with the force of a backhand. Not loud. Not cruel. Just undeniable.

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