Serafina
I noticed the bruises in the early morning light—faint blue shadows blooming across Adrian’s ribs, just barely visible where his shirt had ridden up as he slept.
At first my mind refused to comprehend what I was seeing. Adrian slept face-down, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, the other curled beneath his pillow. He looked exhausted beyond measure, the deep grooves of sleeplessness etched beneath his eyes even in rest.
But those bruises—irregular, smudged, finger-shaped in places—told a story his mouth never would.
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. I reached out before I could stop myself, brushing my fingertips just above one of them. His body flinched involuntarily, and I jerked my hand back as though the bruise had burned me.
God, what had I done to him?
Not physically—no, never—but emotionally, spiritually, intimately. I had driven him to this. Driven him into shadows. Driven him into the arms of strangers. He was coming home marked by a world he should never have entered, and yet… I was the one disappearing into darkness with Matteo. I was the one tearing our marriage apart from the inside out.
A soft groan escaped Adrian as he shifted, waking slowly. His eyes blinked open, heavy and unfocused. “Fina,” he murmured, voice thick with fatigue, “you’re awake early.”
I swallowed, forcing composure into my tone. “So are you.”
He rolled onto his back—and immediately winced. Pain flashed across his face before he masked it with a tight exhale.
My breath caught. “Adrian,” I said, allowing my voice to tremble just slightly—because part of it wasn’t an act. “Are you alright?”
He nodded too quickly. “Just sore. Long week.”
My gaze drifted, deliberately, to the faint bruising. “It looks painful.”
He tugged his shirt down instinctively, as if hiding the evidence. “It’s nothing, Fina. Honestly.”
I forced myself to step closer, perching on the edge of the bed. “Nothing doesn’t bruise like that.”
He laughed softly—forced, practiced. “You’d be surprised.” He shifted again, hiding another flinch behind a cough. “It’s work stress. Training. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Training.
Stress.
Excuses.
I didn’t call them out. I didn’t accuse. I couldn’t—not when I was guilty of deceptions of my own, deceptions far worse than whatever recklessness had painted those bruises across his skin.
“Maybe you should rest more,” I murmured gently, smoothing the hair from his forehead. My fingers trembled, and I prayed he didn’t notice.
His eyes softened at the tenderness—softened in a way that sliced me open. “I’m fine,” he whispered, though the lie shimmered in his voice.
I wanted to tell him the truth.
I wanted to confess everything—to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness, to unravel the knot of secrets choking me. But then Matteo’s face flashed in my mind—his touch, his breath, his voice whispering things that awakened a hunger, a longing, a familiarity I had fought so many years to bury.
Adrian reached up, brushing my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You look pale,” he said softly. “Is something wrong?”
Everything was wrong.
“Just tired,” I replied, the lie sliding from my lips like water. “There’s been a lot on my mind.”
He watched me carefully—too carefully. “Is that why you’ve been disappearing in the evenings? The late council work? The early mornings?”
My stomach tightened. “Yes. Of course.”
He nodded slowly, though something in his eyes dimmed with doubt. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.
The words hit me like a blow.
“You won’t,” I said quickly, placing my hand over his. “Adrian, you—”
“I feel like I already am,” he cut in quietly.
My breath trembled. The sincerity in his voice, the fear beneath it—it was unbearable. And still, still, I didn’t stop. I didn’t end the meetings. I didn’t delete Matteo’s number. I didn’t tell Adrian the truth. Because even as guilt suffocated me, a traitorous longing tugged at my pulse.
“There’s nothing taking me away from you,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the lie vibrating beneath the words.
He nodded again, but the doubt remained. Then, as if afraid he had exposed too much, he sat up slowly, hiding another wince. “I need a shower. Then I’ll meet you for breakfast.”
I stood as he rose, giving him space he didn’t ask for. “I’ll make something light.”
He paused at the doorway, turning back. “Serafina?”
“Yes?”
“You would tell me if something was wrong… wouldn’t you?”
His voice cracked—barely, but enough.
My heart fractured.
“Of course,” I whispered.
He held my gaze for a long, searching moment. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click.
The moment it closed, my legs gave way. I sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing my fists into my thighs to keep from shaking. Every breath felt heavy, thick, drowning me in a storm of consequences I had never intended to unleash.
The bruises.
The drinking.
The exhaustion.
The emotional decay.
I had done this.
I had pushed Adrian so far from me that he was falling into abyss after abyss, desperate for anything resembling comfort. And I—what was I doing? I was meeting Matteo in secret rooms, trembling under his touch, pretending anonymity could shield me from the truth.
I was destroying my husband.
And still…
I could not let Matteo go.
The thought sickened me. I rose, pacing the room, hands trembling uncontrollably. I tried to imagine cutting off the meetings, blocking Matteo, ending it once and for all. But every attempt dissolved into the same visceral memory—Matteo’s voice whispering that he felt connected to me, his hands tracing my skin as if he already knew who I was, his breath trembling with longing that matched mine in a way I couldn’t bear to acknowledge.
I pressed a hand to my chest. My heartbeat pounded against my palm, frantic, uneven.
“I can’t live like this,” I whispered to the empty room. “I can’t keep him safe and keep this secret. I can’t protect both of them.”
But the truth was merciless.
I didn’t know how to stop.
Not when Matteo awakened something in me.
Not when Adrian’s distance fed the guilt that bound me to the shadows.
Not when I was caught between two lives—both unbearable, both inescapable.
When Adrian returned from the bathroom, dressed and composed, I painted on the familiar smile he needed. He didn’t question it. Not yet. But the crack in our marriage widened with every step we took toward the kitchen.
And as he reached for a cup, wincing again—my heart shattered a little more.
Because I feared not only losing him.
I feared destroying him. And I feared that the part of me reaching for Matteo was the very part capable of doing it.