Page 85 of Of Lies and Shadows

It hits like a slap—cold, distant, and polite. I want to shake her, beg her to stop being so composed, to show me anything real.

“Is there anything I can do to make it right?” I ask. “Anything that would make you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

There it is, the shrug. Thatfuckingshrug, and I snap.

“Of course there is!” I bark. “Stop pretending. Stop pretending I didn’t destroy what we could’ve had. Stop pretending that what happened last night wasn’t real. Don’t stand there and lie to me like it didn’t wake up something in both of us.”

She flinches, just a flicker, but I see it.

“I—” she starts, then shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I demand. “If you want to hurt me, just do italready. Don’t dangle hope and take it away.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “You really want to make it right?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping toward her. “Whatever it takes.”

She holds my gaze for a beat, unreadable, then turns and walks upstairs.

I follow without hesitation.

My mind is already racing, imagining her leading me to our room, not hers. Imagining us sitting the twins down together, explaining that this marriage is no longer a cage but something real. I see the future stretching ahead of us like something we could finally build together.

She shatters it in two seconds.

When she comes out of the closet, there’s a brown envelope in her hand. She holds it out to me, and my stomach knots.

“What’s that?” I ask, already knowing.

She says nothing as I take it.

The title at the top cuts through me like a blade:Petition for Divorce.

Everything in me stills, and for the first time in years, I don’t know what to say.

“Absolutelyfuckingnot!” My voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and final. I don’t care how calm she looks. I don’t care how carefully she planned this. I’m not signing.

Francesca doesn’t flinch. She just folds her arms over her chest as if she expected this exact reaction.

“Don’t worry,” she says coolly. “Look at the documents. I don’t want anything. Not a penny, not a car, not even a fucking coffee machine. I swear.”

That only pisses me off more.

“Then how the hell do you expect to live?” I growl. “You think I’ll let you walk out of here with nothing and just… vanish?”

“I won’t vanish,” she replies, calm as ever. “I have things. Jewelry, bags, watches. Designer stuff my father gave me over the years.”

I blink, confused for a beat. “What?”

She meets my gaze evenly. “Why do you think I asked for designer things all those years? For fun? It was always for this. For running. I never planned to stay in that house, Dante. I was building my escape.”

That stings more than I’ll admit.

“And what about the kids?” I snap. “You’d just turn your back on them like that?”

Her eyes flash, then, finally, “Of course not,” she bites out. “Don’t insult me.”

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