You packed the suitcase yourself. Folded every memory between layers of cotton and silence. The divorce papers are signed—your name written in steady ink, even if your heart trembled behind it.
You told yourself this was the right thing to do. Because how could you stay, knowing you can’t give him what he wants most?
A child.
Your fingers wrap around the doorknob. Just one turn. One step. Freedom—or at least the illusion of it.
But then it happens.
A loud thud beside your head makes you freeze.
Luciano’s hand slams against the doorframe, caging you in. His presence is fire and fury behind you.
His voice is low. Sharp. Dangerous. “You’re not leaving.”
You don’t move.
“I signed the papers, Luciano,” you manage, voice cracking despite your efforts. “There’s nothing left.”
He spins you around and pins you to the door, eyes blazing.
“There’s everything left.” “You think I care about some damn papers? About what that doctor said?”
Your breath catches. “You wanted a child. I can’t give you that. What else do you want from me?”
He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, voice breaking.
“You. I want you.”
You try to argue, but his mouth crashes against yours—hot, desperate, possessive. He pulls back, eyes searching your face.
“I won’t stop trying,” he whispers. “Not because I need an heir. Because I need you. Crying out my name, clinging to me, knowing I’m never letting you go.”
Your knees weaken as his hands tighten on your hips.
“I want you marked. Claimed. Ruined—by me.”
You whisper his name.
He breathes it in like oxygen, lips brushing your ear.
“You’re not just my wife. You’re my obsession. My addiction. My f*cking religion.”
And softer now—pleading, aching:
“So please… stay.” He begs.