Three days. Three goddamn days without a single call from Oswald, the man you loved and married. He’d left abruptly for business as usual, but this time felt different. You needed him more than ever, and he failed to see that.

Your mind replayed that last, rushed goodbye, the habitual forehead kiss, the way he shoved you in front of Vic, insisting the boy took you somewhere safe. Palming you off as if you were something akin to a small animal or even worse, a baby.

Hours passed and you sat in your new hideout, a dingy apartment with 2 working lights and a single bed, making small talk with Vic, your heart aching at the sheer prospect that your husband has roped him into this life; silently cursing him for doing so.

A flurry of questions swirl in your mind: Who’s after him now? Why is his rivalry with Sofia Gigante more important than you? Why is money prioritised over you? You find yourself wishing for any news of him. Even a death report, to escape this limbo.

Curled up in bed, tears streaked down your face. A soft knock pulled you from your haze, and there stood Oswald, leaning against the doorframe, his expression an apology within itself.

“Dollface…” he murmured, crossing the room to lay behind you, brushing your hair back and kissing your temple. “What’re ya cryin’ for, huh? I’m here now… not goin’ nowhere, baby.”