Cleopatra startled, her eyes flying to his as though she’d seen a ghost, panic obvious in her face. His stomach churned.
“What about?” Her tongue darted out and licked her lower lip, her body bracing visibly.
He hated this. Every time he looked at her now he saw only what he’d done to her, what he’d made her feel and think. He could barely remember the beautiful, happy free-spirit she’d been when they’d first married.
“You being miserable, and me not being able to stand it,” he said darkly, waving towards the seats across the room, inviting her to sit. Her eyes were huge, and she shook her head, her lips forming a perfect ‘o’. Even in that moment, he ached to kiss her. He wanted to drag her into his arms and remind her of how Goddamned perfect they were together. But it wasn’t fair to use her desire for him to get his way.
She loved him. Whatever the hell that meant, she felt it, and he needed to respect that.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Her lips tightened into a grimace, though he suspected she was trying to smile. His insides felt like they were being pummelled. His heart was beating against his ribs, urging him to forget this, to keep things as they were.
But he couldn’t. Having seen her in such distress, he could no longer keep going.
He’d been wrong.
This was all wrong.
“You’re miserable,” he said again. “And so I am.”
Her eyes flared to his, wide with shock.
“I wanted this to be simple – a marriage founded on the basics of business. I thought we could make it work. But I can’t. And I know I can’t make you happy.”
She moved then, taking a small step away from him, wrapping her arms around her waist.
She didn’t speak; he suspected she couldn’t. He was finding it hard to drag the right words out, even when it was so clear what he needed to say and do.
“I was wrong to keep you here. Wrong to insist you stay married to me.”
Her face was stricken. She swallowed visibly and shook her head. “What are you saying?”
Christo, he wanted to touch her, hold her, hug her, fix this. He wanted to be a different man, a better man. He wanted to be the man who could give her what she wanted, but he was as he was – his life he predisposed him to this, a person incapable of love, unwilling to even try it. Mentally he invoked every curse he knew, in every language.
“This marriage was a mistake. I should have listened to you.” He angled his face away from her; he could no longer look at her, no longer see her hurt, her rejection. Damn it, how had he got this so wrong?
Even as he spoke these words, dissolving his marriage, his body fired with desire, with needs, with rejection of this whole damned idea. What was he thinking? Could he really let her go? Surely this would all blow over?
Except, no, it wouldn’t. He saw that with blinding clarity. She loved him and she deserved to be loved; he couldn’t give her what she needed.
There was only one option before him.
Benedetto had built his business from nothing. He had been alone all his life, with only sheer determination to guide him, and his determination would guide him now.
He ground his teeth together and focussed on his resolve.
“You told me how unhappy you were a week ago. I’ve been a selfish bastard, forcing you to stay in this marriage knowing it would never work for you, knowing I’m the last man who can give you what you want. What you deserve.” His voice was coarse with emotion on the last sentence. He swallowed, his heart choking in his chest.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered, and he jerked his head back to her, his face a reflection of his uncertainty. He hadn’t expected this.
“Why not?” Disbelief rung through his words.
“Because I love you.” The words were whispered, pain thick in them. “And even though it hurts like hell, I don’t think I’m strong enough to choose a life without you in it.”
The bottom was dropping out of his world. He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief and hug her and promise her he’d do everything he could to be a good sort of husband, to give her what little he could of himself. But it would never be enough for Cleopatra, and he was a decent enough man – thank Christo – to recognise his obligations to her – even if it had taken him far too long to wake up.
“Can you stay with me, cara? Knowing I won’t ever love you?”
Silence surrounded them, thick and caustic, pulsing with his question, with her wondering and finally, with her involuntary sob. She lifted a hand to her mouth to cover it, shaking her head from side to side slowly, torturously.
And he gave into temptation then, wrapping his hands over hers, holding them to his chest. When he spoke, his voice cracked a little.
“I would give you everything I could – I would try to make you happy, but we both know it would never be enough for you.” His stomach was churning, his pulse like a tsunami. “You were right the other night. You deserve the fairy tale, every single perfect bit of it, and I’m not offering that.”
She bit down on her lip and he stared at the gesture, an ache in the pit of his stomach. “You never were.” She blinked her eyes, trying fiercely not to cry. “I should have seen that.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw and she pulled her hands away from him, taking a step backwards.
“But I can’t leave you.”
Something like hope – a sense of reprieve – flared inside of him, but one look at her ashen, crestfallen face stalled it.
“I can’t leave Freddie.” And now the tears that had moistened her eyes fell freely, rolling down her pale cheeks, landing like flames against his heart.
Pain tore through him, panic at what he was about to do. Seven months ago, he would have leapt at any chance to be spared of the necessity of raising his godson, but now the idea of that gripped him like a vice.
This would be for the best, though. For everyone.
“I’m not asking you to, cara.”
Her eyes flashed with hurt. “Don’t call me that.” She shook her head impatiently, then pressed a hand to her flat stomach.
His stomach churned. He ignored her request. “I’m suggesting you take him.” He swallowed past the razor blades that were lining his throat, and closed out the mental image he had of Jack and Veronica. He felt like he was failing everyone he’d allowed to grow close to him.
“What?” It was a whisper, rich with disbelief.
“You should raise him.” He could no longer meet her eyes – the accusation and judgement in them filled him with self-disgust. “He loves you. I’ve seen the two of you together.”
He’d never forget how perfectly suited they were – how Alfredo had come alive in Cleopatra’s presence.
“You’re his Godfather. He loves you too,” she promised. “How can you even think of letting him go?”
He turned back to her then, his face bearing a grim mask. “Because it’s best for him. Best for you.”
“And you?” She took a step towards him, her eyes running over his face as though she could read him, like a book.
His expression was brooding. “What about me?”
“What do you want?”
That, it turned out, was an easy question to answer. “I want you to be happy.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, padding his thumb over her lower lip. “I need you to be yourself again.” He pushed his body forward, unable to resist touching her, and wishing he hadn’t when he was reminded of the weight she’d lost. He would have said he knew every curve of her skin but she was altered now, altered by him and his neglect of her needs. “Your laugh is one of my favourite things – I need to know you’re laughing again.”
She was crying now, because of him. He dragged her into his arms, holding her body to his, breathing her in, knowing this would be the last time they stood like this and wondering at the sense of rock-like dread in his chest cavity.
“Freddie will miss you.”
“No, he won’t. He’ll have you and I know you’ll give him everything he could ever want. Later, when this is… when you’re…”
“When I don’t love you anymore?” She supplied, her tone flat, her voice thin.
“Si. We’ll work out a way to do this better. I want to be in his life one day, but only when it doesn’t cause you this kind of pain.”
She sobbed against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and then did what he knew he had to. He stepped away from her, shoving his hands in his pockets to make sure he didn’t weaken in his resolve.
She was miserable, and it was his fault.
“I presume you’ll go to America?” He intoned, flatly, focussing on the practicalities with gladness. It was in practicalities and logistics that he found strength.
Her eyes were like saucers in her face. “No. That wouldn’t be right for Freddie.” She gnawed on her lip, a sense of panic obvious in the lines of her body now. He had to steer her, to support her, even when he was dragging himself out of her life. “I don’t want him to have to undergo anymore change.”
Her intuition was, of course, correct. “Naturalmente. Then you should stay here and I’ll move out.”
But her obvious sense of panic worsened. She stared at him like he’d suggested she light herself on fire. “I couldn’t do that.” She looked around, as though seeing the ghosts that surrounded them. He saw them too. Where they’d first kissed, by the front door, the way she’d begged him to make love to her, the terrace on which they dined, all the fractured pieces of their time together, drifting through the house like ice bergs upon which he might be shipwrecked at any time.
“I have a penthouse a few miles away. I generally use it for business associates travelling through Rome. I can make it available to you immediately, have it childproofed and ready for Alfredo.”
She let out a long, soft breath and nodded. “It will be easier for you to see him if we’re in Rome.”
His eyes glittered in his tanned face. “When you are ready, cara, yes. But not until then. You deserve so much better than this. I will regret, for the rest of my life, what I have done to you.”
“Don’t,” she shook her head, groaning. “Don’t regret me. Don’t regret this.” And she tilted her head defiantly, bravely, beautifully. “I don’t.”
His heart thumped into his ribs. She deserved so much better than him. She deserved the world. He knew this was the right thing for her, even when every fibre of his being was screaming at him that it was all completely wrong.
16
ONE OF THE THINGS Cleopatra had gradually become accustomed to was the impact of wealth. As a child, she’d had nothing, but from the moment she’d started to work as a nanny, she’d seen the ease with which money could streamline one’s life.
She had no doubt her half-brother enjoyed that simplicity, and it was clear Benedetto also had the ability to throw money at any situation and make it better.
Not better.
Nothing would make the empty, throbbing ache in the pit of her stomach feel better, but at least the tedium of practicalities was not something she had to consider.
The apartment Benedetto had offered was nothing short of palatial. Boasting eight bedrooms, a chef’s kitchen, four bathrooms, and a terrace balcony with views that rivalled even those of his mansion, it was miles beyond comfortable. He must have had tradesmen engaged from the minute she agreed to leave him – a bedroom for Freddie was almost completely ready when she came to the apartment the following day. The décor almost precisely matched his bedroom at Benedetto’s, meaning there was as little confusion as possible for the little boy – who’d already lost so much.
It was Freddie alone that kept her going. Freddie’s presence that forced Cleopatra to get through each day, to wake up and put one foot in front of the other even when she felt like pulling the quilt over her head and shutting out the world.
She simply couldn’t do that.
She kept to their routine. Walking the streets of Rome that they knew so well, hoping that one day it would start to feel normal again, that eventually she’d start to feel less like a fragment of the woman she’d been.
No, she wasn’t a fragment.
She was missing a fragment of herself.
She was missing Benedetto with a power that robbed her of breath.
In the evenings, once Freddie was asleep, she lost her façade, she stopped being able to cope. She stopped being able to pretend everything was okay, because it really wasn’t. She was completely lost.
Days turned to weeks and in time, the weather turned cold. She was glad. Coldness suited her mood. She kept to her routine, bundling Freddie up in ponchos and boots and letting him stomp puddles to his heart’s content. And she tried not to think about Benedetto and how he was spending his days. Though it wasn’t the thought of his days that constricted her airways. It was the nights.
Nights spent tossing in her own bed, imagining Benedetto in his.
Autumn gave way to winter. Christmas approached and Cleopatra held Freddie extra close. Christmas without loved ones was a hard time, she knew this from experience – she vowed she’d make it special for him. Not with material possessions – he didn’t want for anything there. No, Cleopatra was determined to make this season filled with love and joy for the little boy who had lost so much. She took him for longer walks, wrapped up in his warmest jackets and coats, marvelling at the elaborate window displays boasting toys and decorations. She baked with him, all of the recipes she’d made with her mom as a young girl. They played carols, and she tried not to think about Benedetto, tried not to wonder about him.
Whenever she found herself losing that battle, dissolving into the past, she clung to the certainty that she’d done the only thing she could. If she’d stayed with him, she would have always hoped – hoped he would one day grow to love her, hope that he might feel for her as she did for him.
But that was a recipe for misery.
It had been four months. Surely one day she’d wake up without feeling like a piece of her had been ripped clear from her body?
The music was excellent. The food great. Wine aged and served in fine crystal. He’d just got word he’d received the necessary approvals for his latest medical device – after three years of dancing with the European authorities. A beautiful woman across the restaurant had been chasing him with her soulful black eyes all evening. Benedetto should have been on cloud nine. He should have been loving life, loving this moment.
He wasn’t.
He finished his steak and placed his cutlery on the plate, leaning back in the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. It was a mistake. Whenever he closed his eyes for longer than a blink, he saw Cleopatra. He saw her smile, her eyes, heard her laugh, her sigh, her moan, heard his name tumbling from her lips, filled with passion and need, saw her body writhe as though the flames of hell were licking her with an impossible-to-ignore heat. He felt every memory as though it were a brick around the wall of his soul, one he couldn’t build any higher, and couldn’t seem to tear down.
It had been months now.
Long weeks in a house that rattled with emptiness and memories. Weeks of twenty-hour days, weeks of staying busy so he didn’t have to be alone. Winter had closed in over Rome. It was time to forget Cleopatra.
He’d done the only thing he could – let her go. She’d wanted something he couldn’t give her. She wanted a dream that would always be out of reach.
He lifted his wine, drinking the robust Shiraz with a scowl on his lips. The scowl deepened when the brunette across the bar smiled at him, her cherry red lips curving into an expression that could only be described as seductive.
His body didn’t react; he looked away.
If only Cleopatra hadn’t got caught up in the fairy tale notion of ‘love’. What even was that? A lie people offered one another because they couldn’t accept the truth of life. There was a reason people were born on their own.
He took another drink of wine as
a waiter appeared and cleared his plate. “Anything else, sir?”
He shook his head, his face like thunder.
As a man in his thirties, Benedetto could perfectly understand the academic sense of his worldview. He could see that his particular childhood and experiences had formed his spirit of independence, his determination to be alone and to make it on his own.
Parents who’d been more fixated on their next hit of heroine than on their son, a boarding school where he excelled academically but felt perennially isolated from the spoiled, entitled kids who filled the halls, a career that had isolated him for the sheer magnificence of his success. And he’d never cared, because he’d loved being alone – a step aside. He’d found the perfect kind of companionship with women – beautiful, sensual women who tumbled into his bed with alacrity, warming his body, filling him with lust and then leaving again the next day.
He’d had Jack. He’d had Veronica.
His stomach dropped at the thought of them – no, not at the thought of them, so much as at the ways in which he’d failed them. They’d trusted him with their son and he’d been manifestly unsuitable as a parental figure.
Except in one way: he’d found Cleopatra. And she was perfect.
Damn it. He closed his eyes willingly now, surrendering to this, seeing her with Alfredo, remembering the way they’d fit together, the perfection of their relationship, and he groaned darkly. Veronica would have loved Cleopatra. She would have approved.
Then again, who wouldn’t love and approve of Cleopatra?
His chest tightened.
Who wouldn’t love her?
Him.
Perhaps he was the only person on earth who wouldn’t have jumped for joy when she’d confessed how she’d felt.
He swore under his breath and stood abruptly from the table, drawing the brunette’s curious gaze. He ignored her and threw some money on the table, striding from the room without a backwards glance.
This sense of claustrophobia was not new. He’d felt it again and again since she and Freddie had left. He felt it often.
It was a cold night, but he decided to walk the mile or so home.
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