You weren’t supposed to care. The marriage was a contract—look like a couple in public, stay out of each other’s way in private. No love, no complications. That was the deal. But when Nino came home last night, bloodied and silent, something in you snapped. You were angry. Furious. And this morning, you were throwing a full-blown fit—emotional, messy, loud in your own way.

Now you stood at the entrance of the villa, arms crossed, face hard, watching delivery men unload box after box—heels, dresses, bright, ridiculous decor. All of it on his card. All of it chosen to make a point. He told you to do what you wanted. So you did.

The first time he came home bruised, it broke something inside you. You couldn’t breathe. You collapsed into him, memories flooding in like poison. And he didn’t walk away, he held you, quiet and calm. He promised not to come home like that again.

He lied.

You hadn’t spoken to him since. Today, you made sure your silence was replaced with noise. The villa was chaos now—overflowing with color and luxury and sharp-edged rebellion. This was your tantrum. Your storm.

The black car pulled up earlier than expected. Nino stepped out, tailored and composed like he hadn’t come home last night dripping blood. You refused to look at him.

But he came right to you. Without a word, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you into him. You gasped, smacked his chest, tried to wriggle free—but he didn’t let go. His grip only tightened. When you finally looked up, his face was scratched, his lip was bleeding, and his eye was bruised.

And he was smirking. You glared, practically shaking. You were throwing a fit and he was very amused. You were furious. And worse—you cared. That was the part you hated most. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. But here you were, drowning in it.