Till Death or Divorce — Episode 2

The door opened. Dante walked in, still in his suit, and held out a Monterey emblem. One year, he said. Then we part ways. His voice low and detached.

A divorce agreement? On our wedding night? Sign it before the year ends. His gaze dropped to my nightgown, and for a slip second, his pupils dilated, dark, I nodded.

Will you be staying tonight? Penny for your thoughts, little dove. Thinking about making this a real wedding night? He leaned in, a knowing smirk playing adding on his lips.

No. Nothing at all. I couldn't breathe. Good. He turned toward the guest wing. Sleep tight, Elena. 364 days to go.

The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the bridal suite, holding divorce papers that smelled something like blood or gunpowder. I didn't sleep.

At 3 a.m., I heard the shower and the guest wing running for 45 minutes. When Dante emerged, he was fully dressed in a fresh suit, rolling a suitcase toward the elevator. You're leaving?

I stood in the hallway, hugging my arms. Sicily. Business. Seven months. Seven months of a 364-day marriage. The words sounded pathetic even to me.

Should I wait for you? His hand tightened on the leather handle. Thick calluses crossed his trigger finger. Do what you want, Elena.

The contract allows you full use of the apartment and the credit line. That's not what I asked.