I used to believe he was simply reserved, someone who didn't know how to express emotion. I excused his distance, softened his indifference, turned every absence into something understandable. He was the heir to the Falcone Syndicate. He carried weight no civilian husband carried. I told myself that was enough to explain the silence.
But now, standing outside that door, listening to the tenderness in his voice for someone else, I finally understood.
He wasn't incapable of love.
He just didn't love me.
I bit down hard on my lower lip, the sharp sting grounding me as I stepped forward quietly. Without making a sound, I placed his phone by the office door, setting it down gently as if even that small noise might shatter what little composure I had left.
Then I turned and walked away.
The soldier stationed at the end of the hall glanced at me, then looked away. He had heard everything. In this Family, everyone always heard everything, and no one ever said a word.
By the time I reached the street, it had started to rain.