Page 52 of Queen
I shake my head, fury boiling over. “You sound insane. You sound like Giovanni—twisting everything into some fucked-up version of love that only serves yourself.”
The mention of Giovanni slides between us like a blade. Emiliano doesn’t flinch, but his gaze sharpens to a lethal edge. He cages me against the cold stone, body close enough that his breath grazes my cheek.
“Tell me it meant nothing,” he murmurs, each word a dare. “What we did last night. Say it, Zina, and I’ll let you walk away.”
The foyer goes still. My pulse drowns out the flicker of candles and the moan of wind at the shutters.
My lips part. I want to scream the denial, to spit poison into his face, but the truth jams in my throat. Because it didn’t mean nothing. It meant everything—and that terrifies me more than fire ever did.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms, desperate for pain to ground me. But he sees it. He always sees it. The crack I can’t hide. The truth I can’t smother.
My silence is his victory.
And we both fucking know it.
Cracks in the Armor
I leave him in the foyer, his silence pressing against my back like a weight I can’t shake. My heels hammer the stairs, every step an act of defiance, but by the time I slam my bedroom door shut, the fight drains from me.
The room feels too big, too empty. The fire in the hearth is long dead, leaving behind cold ashes and the faint tang of smoke that twists my stomach. I yank open my nightstand drawer, hands shaking, dragging out the bundle of letters I swore I’d never touch again.
Old paper, fragile and creased. My handwriting snakes across page after page, a ghost of the girl I used to be. I tear through them, searching for—what? Comfort? Clarity? A reason to keep breathing in this house of ghosts?
One slips free, fluttering onto the rug.
I stoop, fingers trembling as I pick it up. The date stops me cold. Six years ago. Months after I married Giovanni.
I sink onto the bed, the letter shaking in my grip. Tears smudged the ink years ago, but the words are still legible, still sharp enough to wound me now:
I dream of someone who sees me and doesn’t flinch. Someone who looks at me like I’m not a burden. Not a pawn. Just a woman.
My throat closes. I remember writing it—scribbling until the pen tore through paper, crumpling the sheet, smoothing it out again as if someday I’d find the courage to send it. Of course I never did. Giovanni wouldn’t have cared. He never saw me. Not really.
But now, staring at those words, all I can think of is Emiliano. His eyes, unflinching. The way he looks at me like he’s known all my fractures from the start.
It sounds like him. It always fucking did.
The thought tears me apart—gratitude and fury colliding until I can’t tell which is stronger. I crush the letter in my fist, press it against my chest, as if pressure alone can smother the ache.
A knock breaks the silence. Soft. Not him. He never knocks.
“Mom?” Guido’s voice, small, hesitant.
I swipe my face with the back of my hand, shove the bundle of letters aside, and open the door. My son stands there in pajamas, hair sticking up in wild tufts, eyes too knowing for his age.
“You’re sad again,” he says. Not a question. Just truth.
The words slice me open. I kneel and wrap him tight in my arms, holding him until he squirms, then relaxes into me. His warmth, his heartbeat, his steady little breaths—they’re the only things tethering me to this world.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whisper into his hair, the confession searing like acid.
He doesn’t answer. Just hugs me back, small arms strong around my neck. For a moment, I almost believe it’s enough. That if he loves me, maybe I can survive this.
But when I glance up, the mirror across the room catches me.
Not a widow. Not a queen.
Just a woman unraveling, piece by piece.
