Page 61 of Of Lies and Shadows

I hate that somewhere in me, the memory of him still lingers. The hallway kiss. That morning in the kitchen. Theway I used to believe he might not be the monster everyone warned me about.

I want that part of me dead and buried. So I close my eyes, and I go to The Lake.

The cool surface closes over me like glass. Still. Quiet. Untouchable. I float there, drifting further from the room, from my skin, from him.

His voice becomes muffled, his touch mechanical. The scent of cedar no longer reaches me.

I am not here.

I don’t know how long I stay gone, only that when I return, Dante is standing by the bed, still dressed, chest heaving. His face is flushed with rage, the vein in his neck thick and corded, his jaw clenched so tight I think he might crack a molar.

He looks like he’s about to combust.

“Where do you go, Francesca Forzi,” he says, his voice low and trembling with fury, “to escape the disgusting touch of your husband?”

I sit up slowly, pulling the duvet up with me. I should be afraid, but I’m not. Not really. I just feel… tired.

“I’m not Francesca Forzi,” I say quietly, meeting his eyes. “And you’re not my husband. Not in any way that matters.”

His eyes flare, but I press on, my words flat and void of emotion. “Why even bother with soft touches and whispered words? That’s not what you want. I’m not here for tenderness. I’m here for utility. So if you came for sex, then get on with it. I won’t stop you. I won’t scream. Just… do your business and go.”

For a second, I think hemight actually hit me—not because he’s ever raised a hand, but because he looks that unhinged, that consumed.

But then he laughs. A short, sharp sound filled with venom. “If I wanted to fuck a corpse,” he bites out, “I’d go to the morgue.”

I flinch, but he’s not finished.

“A whoretries, Francesca. Even if it’s fake.” The words land like blows, and I swallow hard, staring past him because I can’t let him see what that does to me.

“That’s not?—”

He cuts me off, not with words, but with movement. He paces, hands threading through his hair like he’s searching for something he can’t name. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing and just doesn’t want to face it.

Then he turns. “You’re moving to my room.”

That jolts me upright. “No. Absolutely not. That’s a wife thing. I’m not—” I shake my head, stumbling over the words. “It’ll confuse the kids.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How would it confuse them? Youaremy wife.”

I don’t bother correcting him. Legally, technically—yes. But I’m no wife.

“They already know it’s fake.”

He goes still. “Pardon me?”

I curse myself for saying it that bluntly. But the damage is done now, and the air between us sharpens to a blade.

“The twins,” I say quietly. “They’re not stupid, Dante. They know something’s off. They feel it. Kids always do.”

His jaw tics. “What exactly did you tell them?”

I take a breath. “The truth. Or… as close as I could get without breaking their hearts. Lucia asked if she could call me Mom. And I couldn’t let her. She alreadyhada mother who loved her. And one day, whether you get bored or I disappear, they’ll lose me too. I won’t let them think they’re losing a mother again.”

He’s staring at me now, unreadable.

“So I told them,” I continue, “that you married me tosaveme. That you were protecting me. I made you the hero, Dante. I gave them a story where you’re not the monster.”

And for a long, unbearable moment, he says nothing at all.

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