Articulations of Aspen

The first thing you notice, waking from a nap on the floating bed in the pool, is that Andy is gone.

Not gone gone, just not on any visible axis of the infinity pool, nor on the adjacent stone terrace, nor peering at you from the shade of the loggia the way he sometimes does, as if he’s making a private study of how thoroughly the Italian sun kisses your skin. You hear the distant echo of his voice, maybe a phone call, maybe not, and the hush of water lapping gently under your body—then, nothing but bird noise and the lethargic patter of an October breeze, already shifting the air toward winter.

You close your eyes and count each lapping wave, the buzz of distant bees, the punctuation of a single, insistent fly spiraling nearby is the only irritant these days. It’s nearly impossible to believe this is your life now, but three weeks in, the unreality is smoothing into a different genre of normal.

The days have been long and slow, a sequence of luxuries and heat, the kind of leisure you used to think only existed for other people. You and Andy fuck constantly, everywhere—on the bed, the pool steps, once on the sun-warmed hood of the vintage Maserati that he’s aquired for this house. There is no schedule, no work—or rather, your work is to be together, to weather the strange storm of his affection and your own disbelief that you are, in fact, married.

The rhythm of the days is built around meals and sex, though not always in that order. Some mornings you wake to croissants and espresso, some to the weight of Andy’s body already moving inside you, his mouth flattening any chance you had at protest. There’s a kind of athleticism to it now, a drive that’s less about conquest than about seeing how far the two of you can dissolve into each other before you lose track of who’s who.

And here there is just time: for sleeping in, for reading entire novels on the terrace, for walking the estate’s perimeter in silence, hand-in-hand, or apart but within each other’s sightlines.

Only twice in these three weeks has Andy vanished, usually for less than an hour, silent and grim, striding off with his phone pressed to his ear. Each time you think you should be annoyed, resent the way he leaves you alone, but shouldn’t you want the alone time? Regardless, the sense of abandonment never quite blooms. He always comes back to you, faster than you expect, with a heat in his eyes that insists you are the thing he wants most.

You learn the gentle rhythms of the house. The gardener, Ugo, arrives at sunrise, and if Andy’s not already up and prowling the study, you’ll often find him barefoot on the dew-wet grass, talking with Ugo in a tangle of Italian that sounds almost like music. You learn that the best breakfast is not at the marble table but at the ancient wooden bench near the back door, looking out over the lake with your legs over Andy’s lap, watching the chop of early light on the water.

The villa is built on a steep slope that plunges into Lake Como, all pale stone and terracotta roof tile, the kind of property purchased only by those who intend to keep it for generations.

Andy is softer here, in a way that doesn’t mean gentle. He is more relentless, if anything, but less guarded. He will spend hours reading in a chair beside you, or spiral into long monologues about Roman history, or sleep like the dead, one hand always on your skin, as if the long habit of possession won’t dissolve even under a Mediterranean sun.

You get out of the pool, towel off in the sun and walk toward the second floor bedroom you share with its view onto the glassy blue lake. You peel off the swimsuit, and change into a loose linen shirt and soft drawstring pants, and even this luxury feels excessive. Since your engagement, Andy has thrown out half your old wardrobe, replacing it with indecently fine things that you pretend to resent but wear anyway. It makes your skin buzz, the way he dresses you for both your pleasure and his.

You tidy your hair in front of the wide, low vanity—a walnut table, ancient, with a marble top. It’s the kind of thing you would have rolled your eyes at a year ago—the velvet stool, a beveled oval mirror, and an array of perfumes and powders, all staged with an artful disregard for clutter. But you’re drawn to it every day, primarily because of the golden brush and hand mirror that sit at its center, a vintage set that Andy gifted to you the first morning here in Lake Como.

He presented them to you the very first morning. They’d been in a heavy walnut case lined with blue silk. “It belonged to my grandmother,” he’d said, watching your reaction with the same intensity he brought to every other element of his life. “My mother used it every day. I think she’d rather you have it than leave it locked in a safe.” The set was shockingly beautiful—brushed gold handles, and fine porcelain painted with an intricate flower pattern. The bristles are impossibly soft. The mirror refracts your face into something both clearer and less familiar. Every morning, you brush your hair with it. Every morning, you catch Andy watching you in the reflection.

He is in the doorway now, arms folded, his own shirt liberally unbuttoned down the front. You didn’t hear him come up. He has a look you know: right on the seam between hunger and amusement, as if the sight of you is a surprise every time, but never unexpected.

“You’re lurking,” you say. In the mirror you watch Andy tilt his head very slightly, a fox reading a threshold.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He approaches and stops just behind you, not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

He watches you finish brushing your hair all the way through, slow, deliberate strokes until the ends fall perfectly straight. Setting down the brush, you turn and face him, waiting.

“You look like you belong here,” he observes.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t you hope it was an inevitability?”

“I don’t leave things to hope.”

He bends and kisses your shoulder—slow, savoring—then lingers, breathing in the scent at your neck. Despite your engagement and these three weeks, you are not yet immune to this. He knows it, too, the way every nerve in you wakes up and goes hunting for more.

But today, he does not escalate—he holds you, chest pressed to your shoulder-blade, and lets the moment dissolve without claiming it. You wonder if he’s in a rare mood of restraint, or whether some part of him is truly, for once, at peace.

You pivot in his arms—quick, surprising him—until you face him fully. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the familiar whorl of dark hair, a constellation of fading scars, and the lick of some of his tattoos exposed.

Andy’s hands settle at your hips, his thumb pressing the linen flat to your skin. “We’re having company tonight,” he says, almost offhand, but you catch the flicker of something in his face—a signal flare if you care to read it.

You blink. “Who?”

He feigns a sigh, but there is almost the hint of a smile around his mouth. “Someone we can’t avoid any longer.”

“That sounds cryptic and ominous,” you say, though not entirely without humor. “Are they dangerous?”

Andy tilts his head as if considering how much he wants to reveal before confirming, “Not to you.”

You frown. “Who is it, then? Another family? A business rival?” You half expect to hear a name you’ll have to Google later, some ancient consigliere or a senator’s nephew with a gambling problem.

Andy hesitates longer than you expect, then finally, “My stepbrother.”

Your brain stutters, reboots.

Stepbrother?

Not a word you’d ever heard applied to the realm of Andy. You comb through every memory of his disclosures, minimal though they have been thus far, and come up empty. You shake your head, as if a drop of pool water still clings to the inside of your ear. “You never said—” you start, but Andy is already laughing, soft and sharp.

“Didn’t seem relevant, until now.” He grins, his hands tightening at your hips as if to steady you through the shock. “He’s an acquired taste.”

“So, is he coming for dinner, or for war?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder, brushing off the gravity even as you feel an undertow. “He’ll be here at seven. He’s in Switzerland, claims traffic, but really he’s just never been on time for anything like this.”

You lean back against the vanity. “Why now?”

The answer is a smile, but not one that reaches his eyes. “Curiosity.”

You process this. Maybe you should be mad, but if Thea read way too many mafia romance novels, you’ve read just as many mafia and non-mafia romance novels to have where the heroine manufactures outrage over nothing, and you’ve always found it exhausting—the obligatory fight, the unnecessary tension, the reconciliation that changes nothing.

And you’re not actually mad at all that he hasn’t told you about a stepbrother. There’s a long list of things you haven’t told him about because you don’t want to.

So really, you’re just genuinely shocked at a stepbrother’s existence.

“Should I be nervous?” you ask. You’re already running the math in your head: whether this stepbrother is the mold Andy was cast from, or the thing he was cast against. Whether they’re estranged or just whatever the word is for two men who have learned to exist in separate countries.

“You’re not the nervous type,” Andy says, though there’s a sweetness in it, a note of reassurance. He tugs you closer, hands molding you against his chest. “It’s just a meal. He’s not the enemy, he’s just…” Andy trails off, one hand sliding up and down your waist. “Don’t let him get in your head,” he says, softer now. “He’s got a talent for it.”

You know a warning when you hear one.

Seven isn’t so far off. You spend a bit more time trying to care about what to wear, but finally just keep on the linen, Andy insisting that you don’t need to dress up. Your husband, without comment, switches out his shirt for another almost as lazily unbuttoned.

At precisely 6:58 pm, Andy’s phone vibrates where it’s been abandoned on the edge of the sideboard, humming a predatory sound against the wood. He glances at it, then at you, and the look—dry, resigned—tells you more than words could.

“He’s early,” Andy says, but doesn’t move to get the door. Instead, he lets you lead, and you do, padding barefoot down the stone staircase, the cool tile sending a charge up your calves.

The villa’s front door has already been opened by one of the Italian security detail, and waiting on the threshold is a man who waits, arms crossed, with a patience that broadcasts itself as challenge.

The men are nearly the same height, but the similarities differ endlessly between them. Where Andy is all cool blue flame, this man is severe angles and a sharp, surgical presence, muscles hardly contained by his frame. His blue eyes are nearly black, set under straight, unyielding brows—nothing of Andy’s bright, sly smile here. His nose is as straight as a blade. Even his hair is a darker, more exacting version of Andy’s, trimmed so close at the sides it’s nearly military, but longer on top and combed back with obsessive precision.

His clothes are immaculate, but in a way that feels less tailored and more engineered: a black shirt, jacket fitted so closely it suggests armor. Ex-military, you think immediately, but then you see the tiny glint of gold at his left wrist, a watch so expensive and so quietly worn that only someone who doesn’t need you to notice it would ever put it there.

And that mustache.

That’s certainly its own personality trait altogether.

Andy’s stepbrother is attractive, but not in any safe or approachable way. If Andy is handsome in a way that draws you in, this one is repellent, polar, a negative charge that wants to spark or burn.

Even his name, when Andy says it, carries its own weight: “Lloyd.”

“Andrew.” The greeting is a handshake, but Lloyd’s eyes dart sideways, taking you in with an efficiency that’s almost anatomical.

He clocks you in less than a second, blue eyes cutting across the foyer before you can even finish your first, startled blink. A once-over that would be offensive if it weren’t so openly, audaciously clinical. You feel yourself stand a little straighter, some competitive impulse sparked by his entrance, so you paste a smile on your mouth and force yourself to hold his stare.

He doesn’t smile back. “The wife,” Lloyd says, like a fact he’s verifying on a checklist.

You offer your hand because it’s the only move that gets you both out of the standoff, and he takes it in his own, the grip surgical and dry, yet with a voltage that makes your wrist bones hum. He doesn’t give his name or prompt you for yours, just releases and steps inside, sweeping the room with a predatory calm. When he’s satisfied, Lloyd turns his attention back to Andy, and whatever conversation occurs between them is nonverbal but absolutely deafening.

“Congratulations,” Lloyd says, and the word lands somewhere that feels simultaneously genuine and hideously sarcastic.

Andy only smirks. “Let me get you a drink.”

You watch them move into the library off the foyer, and you follow in their wake, observing Lloyd as he glances at the rows of rare books like he’s casing the place for weak spots.

“Scotch?” Andy asks.

“Negroni, if you’ve got a proper vermouth.”

Andy doesn’t dignify this request with a joke, just flips open a lacquered sideboard and pulls down a cut-glass decanter of gin, a bottle of Campari, and an unfamiliar squat bottle with an Italian label. “They make this two kilometers from here,” he says, pouring with a reverence that is almost priestly.

Lloyd, meanwhile, has found the one chair in the room that could double as a throne and seats himself with a proprietary air. Without invitation, he props a booted foot on the low table, surveying you over steepled fingers. He says nothing, but the silence is medical in its sharpness, and you sense he is running diagnostics with each flick of his gaze. You perch on the leather couch next to where you know Andy will sit, knees angled out, showing Lloyd you’re not planning to shrink beneath a family dynamic you have just now learned exists.

It is an old, beautiful library, full of rare bindings and the smell of dust and oil, but the air between the men is fresher, the distinctions newer. Andy sets Lloyd’s negroni before him, then offers a glass of your favorite drink to you, settling in beside you.

“So, Lloyd,” you try, figuring you might as well trot out some kind of conversational opening gambit, “how long are you in Italy?”

He weighs the question for sport. “I’m based out of Switzerland. But till Friday. Then Tokyo.” He sips the drink, his mouth compressing to a tight, precise line, then finally flickers a look your way. “I’ll admit,” he says, “I did not think Andy would ever get married again.” He makes the word again do all the work of a punchline.

Andy’s face does not move, but you sense him recalibrating in the space beside you.

You shrug, as if immune to the dig. “I was as surprised as anyone.”

“You must have really good dirt on him,” Lloyd says, turning to you with a wry arch of his eyebrow. “Otherwise, I can’t imagine him tying himself down at this stage of the game.”

You sputter, shocked since it was exactly the opposite. But Andy intervenes, with a hand on your thigh. “She doesn’t need dirt to get what she wants from me,” Andy says, just on the edge of a threat, but it seems to be a warning to Lloyd, not to you. “She’s the only woman who’s ever really tempted me.”

You blink at Andy, a little surprised, warmth squirming through your chest, unsure how to catalog what he’s saying, and if it’s just for Lloyd, or if it’s actually true.

You’re still processing what even to say to that, but before you can land a response, Lloyd sets his glass down with a decisive clink and leans forward, elbows on knees, gaze slicing into you with surgical clarity.

“So, what do you actually do, then? Wife of Andrew Barber.” The way he says it, with the capital W, makes it clear he sees it as a job in itself. You cock your head, deciding whether to play petulant, sincere, or unvarnished.

“I sleep in, I swim, I read too much. Apparently, I get kidnapped from my life in Boston and flown here for undetermined weeks of forced relaxation.”

Lloyd surveys you, a flicker of amusement passing across the frost of his face, then turns to Andy. “I really hope ‘forced relaxation’ is code for indecent amounts of honeymoon sex or else I’ll have to object to everything this marriage stands for.”

“Lloyd!” Andy’s tone is the admonishment of an older brother, but also a little exasperated, as if Lloyd is forever blurting the worst possible thing at the best possible time.

You can’t help but laugh, which seems to catch Lloyd off guard. “Oh, it’s absolutely code,” you say. If Andy’s hand tightens a fractional increment on your thigh, it’s matched by the up-curve at the corner of his mouth.

Lloyd throws his head back and barks out a single, cold laugh, and then, abruptly, all the armored tension in the room fractures. He shoots you a look that’s almost warm—impressed, maybe, or at least entertained—and Andy, feeling the shift, leans more comfortably into the sofa.

“For a second, I thought you’d be one of those tragic, blink-twice-if-you-need-rescue brides or a total waif and a bore,” Lloyd says. “But I think I’m going to like you. You’ve got bite. A spine. Under different circumstances we might’ve had a one-night-stand.”

You say nothing to that—what can you say?—and take a slow sip of your drink. Lloyd grins, animate now, as if he’s been waiting for a worthy audience all along.

Andy glances over, reading the beat of your silence, and says to Lloyd, “She’d have eaten you alive.”

“She’s doing that now, Andy,” Lloyd says, tipping his glass at you.

The more Lloyd talks the more you see—he’s not so much Andy’s shadow as his negative. Where Andy is tactician, Lloyd is dismantler. Maybe even a little unhinged, but in a way that’s technically useful. You can see why Andy can’t ignore him, but also why he’s arranged his life at a safe distance.

“Tell me, Lloyd,” you say, enjoying the game, “what do you actually do? And do you bring this much charisma to all your diplomatic functions?”

Lloyd refills his own drink, swirling the red liquid with a kind of absent, precise menace. “Officially, I’m a strategic consultant. Audit committees, risk and compliance, that sort of thing. Unofficially… Let’s say I help people find their limits, sometimes by exceeding them.”

You smile, liking this more than you should. “So, you’re the fixer.”

Lloyd shrugs, a gesture of such exaggerated modesty it circles around to arrogance. “I fix things, sometimes. Break them, sometimes. It’s the same art, in the end.” He slouches further in his chair, all calculated ease. “But unlike Andy, I don’t long for power. I just want to see how everything works. People, organizations, the occasional marriage.” He flashes a brief, knife-sharp smile. “I’m here because I couldn’t miss the spectacle.”

Andy groans before throwing back the rest of his drink. “Let’s get this dinner over with.”

It’s late, and the moon is a white saw-curve over the lake, when you and Andy finally give Lloyd a send-off in the gravel half-moon of the drive, hand in hand.

Lloyd had commented on every course over dinner, praising the risotto, bemoaning the use of an olive tapenade as an accompaniment to the roasted vegetables (to which you had to agree), and providing a two-minute oral history of the grappa served afterward (“Never drink it after midnight, unless you want to wake up in another country, married to a Turkish heiress, with a contract out on your spleen”). He did not attempt to murder Andy, nor did he try to seduce you, though there was a blank period in the middle of the evening where he became weirdly intent on teaching you the difference between “threat” and “risk” (both as a business concept and a party game).

Lloyd catches your eye, and for a moment you see the flicker of a new alliance—something conspiratorial. You suspect the two of you are possibly the only two people in existence to challenge Andy so much, and the shock of it seems almost to delight him.

“How long’s this honeymoon gig scheduled to last for you lovebirds?” Lloyd asks.

You, of course, don’t know, so you turn to Andy, who responds with a simple, “Undetermined.”

Lloyd raises both eyebrows. “If that’s true, that’s a first for the mastermind of our operation.”

Andy doesn’t react to the dig—just shrugs, unbothered—but you catch the way his grip tightens imperceptibly on your hand. Lloyd’s grin is the most honest expression he’s worn all evening, something primal and delighted lighting his face.

“Listen, don’t you ever let him win at anything,” Lloyd says, blatantly baiting Andy for maybe the eightiegh time this evening.

“Careful,” Andy says, “You’re going to make a friend out of my wife, and I wasn’t the marrying kind, but we all know you don’t do friends.”

“No friendship here,” Lloyd laughs. “Maybe an ally though,” he says with a ridiculous wink.

You grin, and at that moment you know you’ve not only survived an impossible dinner, but recruited a kind of secret weapon—one more unpredictable variable in a world where all bets have been, for so long, placed in advance.

You’re not sure what you expected from Andy’s stepbrother—less terror, more frat boy turned finance bro smarm—but the actual Lloyd is something more dangerous. The air always feels as if it’s about to spark, but you’re reassured with the knowledge that the threat is mostly performance. He is less a bomb than a demolition analyst, carefully always looking for the support beams to test.

Lloyd shakes Andy’s hand, the briefest clamp of muscle around bone, then holds your gaze a half-second longer than is polite. “Next time,” he says, tilting his head at you, “let’s try for lunch. Or something more dangerous.”

He stalks off into the dark, coat slung over his shoulder. His footsteps barely crunch on the gravel; you imagine he never leaves a trace.

You and Andy linger at the end of the drive until the taillights are just two points of red at the base of the hill. There’s static in the air, a lingering voltage that belongs to the aftershock of Lloyd, but maybe to something else, too.

“Are all your family gatherings like that?” you ask.

Andy chuckles. “Not even close. He’s the only family I really have left, and that’s the most time I’ve spent with him in years.”

“Really?”

He hums in the affirmative. “Lloyd’s dad married my mom when the two of us were in our last two years of high school. We put up with and defended each other in equal measure. Built trust. Still stuck with each other even though both our parents are gone.”

You soak this in as you walk back into the villa, side by side, Andy’s pinky hooked in yours as if he doesn’t trust the night not to take you. The air’s gone cool, the breeze off the lake hinting at woodsmoke and dying leaves. You’re so full of food and conversation that you could float, but you also sense the edge of some deeper story curling beneath everything Andy’s said tonight.

Upstairs, the master suite is all golden lamp light and the faint scent of warm linens and cypress from the trees outside. You kick off your sandals near the door and watch Andy cross to the low settee at the foot of the bed. He sits, elbows on knees, head bowed in that posture you’re learning means he’s prepping to tell you something he hasn’t told anyone in years.

You open the window wide, let silence in with the night air, and begin your bedtime routine. You’ve learned that it soothes Andy to watch you. You move through it slow, deliberate—untangling your hair, massaging lotion into your legs, washing your face, brushing your teeth. When you glance in the mirror, you see he’s still hunched, lost in the linen folds of his shirt, and you feel a pang that is half affection, half something harder.

Whatever the complex mix of what’s brought you to this point, he is your husband, and there’s a solid, warm weight about that fact that exists in the cavity of your chest now, unquestionably.

You finish by the window, looking out at the moonrise over the lake, and say, “Tell me about your mom and Lloyd’s dad.” You don’t mean it as a challenge, only an invitation.

He stretches his legs, slides his palms down his thighs, then says, “He was widowed, and she was divorced, of course.” He glances up, eyes catching on yours, then flicking away. “The man who ws my father was put behind bars for murder when I was eight. Looking back I can see that the man put us through too much for her to ever want to tie herself to a man again. But when she met Lloyd’s dad—Henry—he found her compelling enough to put in the time, talking, showing up, respecting her boundaries for months before she finally agreed to go out with him. He was aggressive, but not creepy. Just… very determined, reliable.” Andy huffs a laugh. “They were ridiculously happy together. Lloyd and I hated each other at first, but we saw our parents were too happy to ruin it for them. I thought he was a sociopath; he thought I was a pretentious little shit. We were both right.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound bouncing off the bedroom’s high ceiling. “You still hate each other?”

Andy’s mouth twitches. “We still keep each other sharp.” There’s a thread of pride in it, or something very close. “He’s the only person alive who can predict my moves.” He’s quiet for a moment, then stands and begins to undress for bed as well. “He tests everyone, all the time. You saw that. But if you pass, he’s loyal.” He glances up at you. “Loyalty means something different to him than most people.”

“So you trust him?”

“Essentially,” Andy says flatly. “He’ll always do what he says he will do. That’s almost the same.”

You study Andy’s face as he peels away his shirt—watch the uncanny way his body sets itself at ease, all muscle and self-discipline. He rakes a hand through his hair, the thick, floofy strands that your fingers easily melt into in your intimacies.

“Lloyd’s dad was killed in a hit-and-run accident. My mom made it clear she still considered him a son, but then she only made it two more years—we discovered she had advanced and aggressive breast cancer. We couldn’t save her. He was there for her for every moment at the end. You could say we were trauma bonded.”

Though it’s a stripped-down recounting, you intuit just how much more is unsaid. It’s not happenstance that’s kept these forced-brothers bonded, but a gravitational choice not to sever the association. What they have makes sense given the context of what you know of each man.

And then there’s his mother. Though he’s spoken only rarely of her, the way he speaks of her, you know he loved her with a ferocity that was rare and consuming. You saw it in the reverence with which he gifted you her brush set, in the way he measures his words about her now, in the fondness you’ve seen in his eyes the handful of other times he’s told you something about her.

Now, in the huge, moonlit room, Andy undoes his belt and lets the sound of the leather sliding free punctuate the silence. He steps out of his trousers, as at home in nakedness as in a suit. There is no shame in him, no self-consciousness—only the expectation that you will watch and be affected.

You could, if you wished, make a study of him for hours. You have, some nights: lying sated beside him, or else propped on an elbow, watching the way breath shifts the shadows across his ribs, or how his chest rises and falls when he is, on the rare occasion, truly asleep while you’re still awake.

Andy pulls back the covers and slides in. You move instinctually to join him, crossing the room, barefoot, skin prickled from the open window and the cold stone underfoot. You watch his eyes track your movement, the intensity in his gaze a physical thing, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.

You climb onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. He reaches for you, but he has no need to draw you in tonight. You want him.

You straddle him, sliding over his hips with the smooth confidence of repetition. Andy’s cock is half hard, and the moment your thigh brushes it you feel him tense—a preemptive shudder that assures you how deeply he wants you, never mind that he had you three times earlier in the day. His hands close around your waist, greedy, guiding you down until the heat of him notches against you. You sink down slow, unhurried, taking him inch by inch.

He hisses through his teeth, eyes slitted, watching your face for every flicker of sensation. When you bottom out, you pause, savoring the fullness. His hands grip tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh at your waist, insistently rocking you forward. You let him set the rhythm at first—he always wants to be in control—but you slide your hands against his chest and demand the kisses you want in tandem with the slow fucking.

Your lips and tongues are devoted to devastating each other. You fuck him the way you’ve learned he likes best, slow, steady, a kind of deliberate mutual detonation, nothing performative, just the honest, hungry slide of your bodies.

It hasn’t escaped you that the reason he likes this the best is likely because he knows the level to which it completely undoes you.

You rock into him, savoring the friction, feeling every inch. Andy’s lips roam your jaw, your throat, his hands possessive at your hips, thumbs stroking small, private circles into your skin. You move together in a rhythm that’s almost lazy, but the heat underneath is anything but.

Andy’s cock pulses inside you, warm and thick. He slips one hand up to your breast, kneading it gently, running his thumb over your nipple until it’s stiff and aching. You arch into him, letting your head tip back, throat bared, and you hear the catch in his breath—the way he loses a thread of composure whenever you let him see you undone.

You ride him, your nails leaving crescents in his chest, the thick, slow grind so deep you could weep from the goodness of it. When your orgasm comes, it’s not a thunderclap but a long, exquisite ache that blooms out slow and stays. Andy holds you tight through it, riding your shudders, his hips rolling up to meet yours in perfect counterpoint until he comes, not with violence, but with a decisive, shivering surrender. He pulls you down with him, chest to chest, his arms locked around your back, the world narrowing to the feel of his pulse under your fingertips, the aftershocks echoing through both of you.

After, you lie together without talking, your cheek pressed to his heart, his hand running lazy paths over your shoulder, the length of your arm, the line of your spine. You are so tired you think you might sleep, but there is a question lingering, and you decide to put it out there, wondering if he may deign you with an answer.

“What did you mean when you told Lloyd the length of our honeymoon was ‘undetermined?’”

Andy doesn’t answer immediately, but he doesn’t tense or look away, just keeps stroking your shoulder, his fingers tracing patterns that feel like a signature.

“I meant it exactly as I said,” he murmurs, settling a little deeper into the pillow. “We have no return date. I haven’t set one. There’s no obligation for us to go back until we want to.”

You frown at him skeptically. “You don’t have obligations and business you have to get back to?”

Andy’s smile is lazy, almost smug. “Perk of being the one that runs the show,” he says. “I decide when I’m needed. I decide when I’m not.” He nudges your ankle with his foot under the covers, a quiet intimacy that feels more too normal to belong to the two of you. “If anyone has a problem, they’ll take it up with me when I feel like answering.”

You settle your cheek into the warm spot above his heart. “I didn’t realize crime lords had PTO.”

“Not PTO,” Andy says, his voice rumbling against your ear. “Sabbatical. Indefinite. I worked for years to keep the world in order enough that I could disappear for a while, if I wanted. Most days I didn’t want to. Now, I do.” He doesn’t have to say with you; it’s so palpable in every gesture, every way he rearranges the days around the shape of your body.

You’re quiet, surprised by how much you don’t want to leave this place either, not yet. Not ever, if you’re honest. The luxury is lovely, but it’s the feeling of waking up every day with nothing to do but want and be wanted that you’re afraid to lose.

He catches your silence, fingers tightening a fraction at your arm. “I like us here,” he murmurs reverently into your ear.

He says it so matter-of-factly, with no expectation or agenda, that you go absolutely still, unprepared for how real it lands.

But then you melt, and admit, “I do, too.”

Anyone joining me with a little swooning?

ALSO

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BROTHER-IN-LAW! MWAHAHAHA!

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There are eighty-six people in attendance at the rooftop restaurant, and you are only sure you know the names of maybe a third. The rest are here because of Andy—to witness or test alliances, play in the ongoing power games, weigh old debts or new risks. It’s the rehearsal dinner for one of Boston Mafia’s elite, so the guest list was meticulously refined for Andy’s part. Yours as well, but not with the same intent or stakes to be considered.

Andy doesn’t own Contessa—the restaurant atop The Newbury Hotel—but he does own the hotel, so it was seamless for your team to arrange this part of the wedding nuptials there. While you and Andy aren’t having a full society affair wedding with all the bells and whistles and three or four days of events and traditions, you do have few significant event pieces woven into the wedding weekend, this being one of them. No one had asked you what to include, but you were part of the overall conversations, and if there had been anything you truly wanted to refuse, you think you might have been able to say so. But your team knows you well enough to create elements you appreciate.

And, annoyingly, so does Andy.

The room is a riot of velvet and silk and black wool, the exact social armor you expect at a pre-wedding gathering of this sort. And yet you can tell this doesn’t scream mafia to the people who don’t know the predators they’re intermingling with. It’s all too reminiscent of how you dismissed the barely-hushed rumors of Andy Barber’s potential connections before he revealed he was one of the kings of organized crime in the city. And for the sake of your parents, your friends, your family, you’re relieved and hope they remain ignorant.

Tonight will be a monumental tell for the future and whether or not you can pass, or rather, who you have to be while passing. You scan the clusters of guests and realize you should have always been able to spot true mafia at ten paces, even when they’re disguised as board members and development officers and venture capitalists. There’s a particular gravity, neither ostentatious nor shy. Men in Brioni suits who know how to vanish into the background, women with hair so immaculate it could have been sculpted from silk.

Andy’s hand has been heavy at the small of your back most of the evening, and it’s somehow almost comforting, an anchor. Occasionally you feel his thumb graze the bare inch of spine between velvet and skin, a touch so subtle it’s only for you.

You look across the room and spot your parents lingering near a tray of passed champagne, your mother straightening the lapels of your father’s jacket with the hopeless affection of people who have been married long enough to know that preening is just another form of devotion. Your mother’s dress is a shade of navy so dark it reads black, and your father looks as if he was born inside a suit, so naturally does this one fit him.

Suddenly Thea is in front of you, plucking a glass of champagne off a passing tray and handing it over, flanked by your other two other bridesmaids. Thea gives you a once-over, and says, “You look like a goddess, a terrifyingly pretty one.” You mutter a thank you, and Thea rolls her eyes. “Please pretend you believe it, just a little bit. You’re a gorgeous bride-to-be whether you want to be or not.”

She’s the only one who knows about your hesitations, and even then you’ve only indulged a fraction.

She winks at Andy, linking her arm through yours. “I’m stealing your fiancé.”

He smirks. “At least you're conceding she’s mine.”

“You wish,” Thea replies, and with a toss of her hair of her shoulder, she leads you away.

The entire evening is a kind of lucid dream. Greetings, handshakes, hugs, careful double-cheek kisses dispensed by those in attendance as you circulate the room. In reality there was no rehearsal for tomorrow’s ceremony, tonight it is merely a small gathering staged for … well, from what you gather, for the sake of it. For those closest to you, it’s to keep up the illusion that this is a wedding you want. For Andy’s world, it seems to be a necessary ritual to confirm the ranks of his order—his trusted soldiers and a handful of his choice allies.

You don’t register that your uncle Rob isn’t there until suddenly he is, and by then, the room has already begun the low-pressure phase transition from cocktails to dinner. The movement is organic—someone dims the lights, the waiters begin the subtle herding, and you are being gently, almost imperceptibly, shepherded toward the long, low banquet table at the far end of the room.

You are halfway to your seat, with Thea close behind and Andy once again at your side, when the double glass doors at the restaurant’s entrance hiss open and Rob strides in, in a full three-piece suit and with the off-kilter swagger of someone who seems to have truly rushed directly from the airport. He gives you a nod and a warm smile, though even at this distance you note it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You wave him over, ignoring the subtle tightening of Andy’s hand on your hip. Rob moves quickly across the room to you, and immediately drops a palm on your shoulder, squeezing—warmth, family, genuine affection. “Am I horrifically late or just fashionably disruptive?” he asks, and before you answer, he’s already deflecting. “You look tired but good. He treating you right?”

Your uncle’s gaze bores into yours for a half-second, searching for something reassuring. You nod and give him a smile. He softens, but only infinitesimally.

“Uncle Rob, this is—”

“Andy Barber,” he supplies, and his gaze flicks to your fiancé, settling there a half-beat too long, cataloging him. You don’t know what’s transpired between them, but you sense something clearly has as there’s a palpable undercurrent, like two strong magnets meeting, neither yielding.

Uncle Rob gives Andy a stiff nod, but Andy merely meets the moment with an open hand. You sense the silent exchange—neutral ground, white flag for tonight, or maybe just a kind of mutual agreement not to detonate inside a room full of witnesses.

It feels strange, but it’s only another line on the list of things that aren’t normal for this entire affair. The exchange goes unnoticed by nearly everyone else since all in attendance are finding their seats, and Uncle Rob falls in among them and takes his assigned seat by your parents.

The food is dazzling, course after course in small, perfect compositions. You try to taste things, to remember flavors, but you are more conscious of the shifting dynamics around you. You are aware of Andy’s hand ever present—on your knee, tracing patterns on your arm, once just lightly gripping your wrist as if keeping you tethered to the table, to himself. You wonder if it’s meant to keep you under control, but the gesture genuinely feels more like reassurance than possession tonight.

Flanked by Andy on your left and Thea on your right, both seem engaged in a subtle contest to out-maneuver each other in their attempts to manage you. Sometimes it’s by steering the conversation, sometimes by way of silently passing you the better part of a shared dish, with Thea by gambling how much she can make you laugh given the current company and whether the moment is suitable for choking on your wine. You’re not sure if you resent this orchestration or if it’s a balm. Maybe both.

At intervals, you glance over at Uncle Rob. The smile he flashes the room is the same as ever, but his eyes seem to rove the room, always taking stock, never fully at rest. He watches Andy most of all, the way a hunter watches a rival predator—admiring and calculating, never blinking outright. At one point, your eyes meet and Rob lifts his glass in a toast, not quite a salute, but you feel the force of the message: he’s here, for you, and he’s not leaving until he’s sure you’re safe. He’s always been more protective of you than anyone else in the family, but this seems more intense, even for him.

Halfway through the meal, Andy excuses himself to confer with two men in dark suits who materialize at the edge of the room, and you find yourself, for the first time all evening, feeling alone at the lack of him. Thea leans in. “You doing okay?” she whispers, but with a smile on her face so it reads as idle gossip.

“It feels like someone else’s wedding,” you mutter back. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

She gives you a look that is both knowing and impossibly gentle. “If you want to run, just say the word. I have five hundred dollars in cash and a getaway Prius, and that’s enough to get us at least to New Hampshire before anyone notices.”

You snort-laugh, a little louder than you meant to, and feel lightheaded for an instant. There is some relief in naming it, even as a joke, even though you don’t question she’s serious about the Prius and the cash.

There is a moment, a half-second, a single synaptic twitch, in which you consider the offer or vanishing into an Uber for Logan Airport. But the urge passes. You already jetted away once and came back.

And that coming back was your choice.

It doesn’t make sense to escape again now.

The rest of dinner passes in a spiral of rich food and laughter that from most people seems to be unforced. Andy returns, all courteous apologies, and places his warm palm on your back again as if plugging back into a vital organ. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, his voice pitched only for you. “I’ll need to disappear for a bit after dessert. Business.” He says it lightly, but the tension is a wire behind each syllable. You nod, and at the same moment he gives your leg a squeeze under the table, as if to say: Don’t worry, I’ll be back. For you. Always that emphasis.

When the meal ends, the room doesn’t thin so much as it condenses. People abandon their seats in favor of looser, more volatile clusterings near the bar or moving out onto the balcony. You sense the shape of the next hours—a kind of shadow afterparty, drinks and ritual toasts and the swerve toward dysfunction that all close social gatherings eventually take. Andy fields a last volley of congratulations, then gives you a look that says thirty seconds, and moves toward a private door near the kitchen, shadowed by his men. You watch him go, feeling again the negative space at your side.

It’s at this point that your uncle finds you again.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, like you’re trading nuclear secrets instead of making polite familial small talk at your rehearsal dinner. “Not too late to call it off.”

You set your jaw, then, because the answer is yes. Or as close to yes as you’ll ever have. If there’s a question curled up in the base of your spine, it’s quieter now—not gone, but quelled by Rob’s questioning.

You find yourself saying, “I’ve made my decision.”

Uncle Rob’s expression is unreadable, then softens just enough to let a sliver of affection through. “Your folks are damn proud. Just so you know. You do know that, right?”

You give half a shrug and a nod.

“And you know that you can always come to me, for anything.”

“Even ashes and body disposal?” you ask, letting a smirk break through the anxiety. He huffs a laugh, but you can see he’s not disarmed by it, not really.

“Especially that,” he says. But then, gentler, yet more serious, he says, “You ever want out, you just say so. Don’t matter what anyone else wants, least of all him. You come to me. You hear?”

You nod, only then realizing, “You know who he is.”

He nods and knocks his glass lightly against yours. “I’m only a phone call away. Fuck the protocols.”

You don’t know exactly what his ties to Andy’s underworld are, or how long he and Andy may have known each other, but some unexplained parts of Uncle Rob’s past make a whole lot more sense if he’s involved with the mafia. You imagine the more you trace back, the more certain absences and behaviors could ultimately be explained.

You don’t allow yourself to ask the next rush questions assembling in your mind. Instead, you clink glasses with Rob again, and when Thea reappears at your side, he makes an excuse and fades back into the crowd. You watch him go, feeling heavier and lighter at once.

“You want air?” Thea asks, as if the answer could ever be no.

Out on the balcony, you stand at the stone parapet for a while, each of your with a glass in hand, the city shining beneath you. Over the railing, half the Back Bay looks like a jewelry case, all neat squares and gold filigree light.

Thea tips her chin out into the dark. “So what’s it like standing up here, knowing you’re about to be a married woman?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a nervous tickle in your chest. “About the same as it is being an unmarried one, only with more witnesses.”

You expect her to laugh, but instead she fixes you with a sly, assessing stare. “He scares me a little, you know,” she says, so matter-of-fact it undercuts any drama. “Not for anything he’s said or done. More in the way those security guys all treat him like he’s royalty. Which, I guess, he basically is, right? Mafia royalty?”

You hesitate, glass at your lips. Did you ever say it to her? You don’t think you did, because you went to Stockholm on the heels of signing the pre-nup which included the NDA elements… You race back through every conversation, every running-on-fumes phone call, and there’s nothing you can recall that would have spelled it out. But your silence lingers half a second too long.

Thea’s face splits in a grin that’s bright and wolfish at the edges. “I KNEW it,” she crows, as if you’ve just confirmed a conspiracy theory about the moon landing. “Oh my god. I knew it. I KNEW IT! Don’t even try to deny it.”

You gawk. “What are—how did—”

You try to look innocent, but Thea is already cackling, delighted with herself, her elbows resting on the parapet like a triumphant detective. “Please,” she says, waving her hand at the party inside, “He’s waaaaaaaaay too rich, I’ve read way too many mafia romance novels, and you had a security detail when you visited me in Stockholm using his private jet. I was 99% sure, and your hesitation there hesitation gave me the last percent.”

You consider protesting, but technically you’ve broken nothing in the contract, and the fact that your best friend knows—that anyone knows—feels like an instant balm.

You clamp a hand on Thea’s wrist. “Promise me you won’t say a word. Seriously. Not to a soul. I mean it. Not a joke, not even a whisper or a meme reference.” There’s an urgency in your voice, and Thea, reading the shift instantly, sobers.

The brightness in her eyes dims by an iota, the seriousness of your tone cutting through the fizz of her delight. She nods, solemnly, and you know that as cavalier as she can sometimes be, she doesn’t question the gravity of your insistence. “I won’t,” she vows, putting her hand over yours.

In the shared silence, you feel her searching your face for something she doesn’t want to say. You let the air prickle between you, each steadying the other just by being present, until Thea finally asks, “Does he make you happy?”

You don’t answer, not at first. You stare into the bright helix of city lights and let the question slide down your spine and settle into your gut. You want to say yes, or even no, anything definitive, but instead you just tell her, “He makes me feel alive,” and hope she hears the ambiguity for what it is.

She nods, lips pressed together. “I’m still not sure why you’re doing this, but I will admit that even though I still have questions, one of those questions is not how much that man cares for you.”

Thea fixes you with a look so curious and gentle it makes you want to squirm out of your skin. “It doesn’t look like any love story I’d picture for you,” she says. “It’s not the type people write poems about or that you see on Pinterest boards. I don’t even know that it’s love, but it’s definitely fierce, and runs deep.”

“Thea,” your voice is a little choked.

“He looks at you like you’re the last thing on earth he thinks is worth burning for.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s true.”

You’re grateful, even if you can’t manage the words to say so outright. Thea is one of the few souls you trust without hesitation in this world. You study her face in the city-dark, finding closeness there that reminds you, with a pang, of who you were before all this.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. You mean it harder than it sounds.

Thea bumps shoulders with you. “I’d literally stand in front of a bullet for you.” She glances toward a distant rooftop bar, probably scouting for snipers. “Metaphorically, but also probably literally.”

You stay there together a little longer, the gentle thrum of summer and the humid glow from the party behind you, breathing easier for the reminder that not all loves are fairy tales, that some are knife-edges, and open secrets, and best friendships.

Shep slides out the glass door with the hush of someone practiced in not disturbing an armed perimeter. He doesn’t interrupt, just drifts into the range of your awareness and waits. When you finally realize on a conscious level that he’s there, turning your head and giving him a small, tight-lipped smile, he says, “Time to make our exit, if you’re ready.”

There’s a quiet emphasis on the word “our,” and you realize how long you must’ve been out here.

“Where’s Andy?” You look over his shoulder, expecting to see him somewhere in the glow and tangle of the party, looming, waiting for you expectantly, but he’s not there. You’re surprised at how keenly you feel his absence. Then you ask Shep, “He’s not coming back tonight, is he?”

Shep shakes his head, a single, precise movement. “He wanted me to see you home. Mark’s already downstairs.” He hesitates, then softens with a half-smile, reading some of your reluctance to leave. “You can have ten more minutes if you want them.”

You take the ten.

It’s enough time for Thea to finish her glass and for you to make the rounds of the party, saying goodnight to your circles of friends and family who were invited to be part of tonight.

Your mother is waiting for you near the coat check, her dark eyes shining, twin tears perilously close to the edge. She pulls you in for a fierce, almost painful hug, her perfume sealing around you like a memory from childhood. “You’re my treasure,” she says into your ear so hard you forget to breathe for a second. She pulls away, fixing your hair with a trembling hand. “Just tell me he’s as good as he looks. That’s all I ask.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and you bob your head, not trusting yourself to say anything more.

Outside, the night air is a slab of heat. Shep guides you to the waiting Range Rover with a balanced mix of deference and I’m still your bodyguard. Mark already has the curbside door open, and you buckle yourself in, feeling the exhaustion of the night releasing through your limbs. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. As complicated as your feelings are around Andy, his absence gnaws at you in a way you didn’t expect. Especially tonight.

When you walk into the mansion, the silence is as sharp as a slap. You expected it, or something like it, and yet standing in the cavernous hush of the marble entry, clutching your tiny evening bag, you’re overtaken by an urge to slam the door hard enough to wake the dead. You don’t, though. You click it shut, toe off your heels and hook them on your fingers, and walk barefoot through the dark to your rooms upstairs.

Andy’s absence is complete and total—no jacket left half-flung on the banister, no ghost of movement or glass of half-drunk bourbon left somewhere. You resist the urge to immediately check your phone, because you want to feel the ache fully, let it sharpen until it outcompetes the dull, unanswerable questions that have circled every day since you said yes, but especially tonight.

You go to the bathroom and take a long, methodical shower. You take your time as you finish getting ready for bed, drifting through the mechanical rituals of skincare and pajamas and teeth-brushing, but you take no comfort in the delicate, orchid-scented candle you light, or the feel of the silk on your skin.

You check your phone, eventually. There’s a text from him, timestamped an hour ago.

ANDY: I’ll be late, don’t wait up.

You want to scream. You want to hurl the phone at the wall or at least send an angry string of messages to force some reaction from him, but you don’t. You sit at the end of the bed with your phone in your palm, glaring at the glow as if it can blink first. Don’t wait up, as if this is remotely normal. You know he’s got business, but he’s never missed an evening with you, never let you go to sleep without him there, touching you, fucking you, just being with you. And now he’s gone the night before your wedding?

You thumb your phone off, toss it face-down onto the bed, and stand for a moment in the hush. You are lit by moonlight coming by moonlight coming in a narrow spill through the vast window, alone with the hum and pop of baseboard heat, a ghost in your own life. You want to be sated by this, to have the sudden expanse and absence feel like relief, but instead it gathers pressure inside your chest. Under the thin silk of your robe, your skin feels hypersensitive, almost electrical, and the wet ends of your hair drip cold water down your spine.

You don’t want to admit how badly you want him here—how quickly your anger at his text has curdled into a more woeful, sticky missing. It chafes to need him.

You try to zone out streaming something on TV, but nothing cuts through to capture enough of your attention in the absence. You’re so used to the energy of Andy’s presence—the kinetic hum of him near you, whether he’s angry or amused or simply radiating power from the next room—that the void he leaves behind is almost audible.

Eventually you are able to at least focus on reading, legs tucked up under you on the settee.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next sensation is not the passage of time but abrupt displacement.

You’re in mid-dream when you sense the shift, the weightless suck of gravity before the realization: someone is lifting you. You twist, half-awake, to find Andy’s arms locked under your knees and back, carrying you with the unthinking efficiency of someone who has probably hauled bodies at some point. You mutter something into his shirt, a syllable heavy with sleep and protest, and he just keeps moving, your head lolling against his chest, too groggy to fight him off at first.

Then you thrash, not gently. You elbow at his chest, catch his ribs with a knee, and hiss, “Put me down.” You mean it. You’re not just startled—you’re still feeling that lingering anger—and Andy, to his credit, sets you down with more care than you expected. You sway and nearly lose your balance, but he catches your wrist, keeping you upright.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice absurdly gentle, and that somehow pricks worse for all its reasonableness.

You rip your hand away. “Don’t do that. Don’t just—pick me up.”

He studies you, searching your face with an unreadable patience. “You were sleeping,” he says.

You steady yourself and glare up at him, refusing to let your fatigue soften the edge of your voice. “You missed the whole rest of the night, Andy. Where were you?”

Although his expression remains the same, the tension around his eyes tightens. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

You scoff. “How do I know that?”

Maybe it’s the sleep, maybe it’s the hunger you’ve been stifling, but it lands with a new kind of sharpness, how Andy answers a question only by hollowing out the possibility you’ll ever ask again. But you refuse to fold into that silence tonight.

“I want you to tell me,” you say.

Andy closes the gap between you with a slow step, his gaze not leaving your face. “Tomorrow’s our wedding,” he says, low and thick in his throat, a softness that isn’t practice so much as exhaustion. His hand goes to your shoulder, thumb pressing the knot between bone and tendon, and you flinch at the intimacy of it, at how easily he can make you want to forgive him. You step back, and he lets you, his arms falling to his sides in a slow, theatrical surrender.

“Don’t do that,” you say again, voice thin this time. You hate the tremor more than you hated his absence.

He tilts his head, studying you in the low light. “You’re angry.”

He smiles, weary but pleased. “You’re angry because you missed me.” He says it not as an accusation, but a simple, delighted observation, like he’s just solved a riddle in your presence. “You care.”

You make a sound, a cross between a snort and a huff, and turn your head before he can get a better look at your face. “I’m angry because you’ve insisted on all of this—me, the wedding, pulling me into your life—and then you desert me the night before we’re supposed to get married? Leave me during the rehearsal dinner? And all I get is a ‘don’t wait up’ text?”

You hate that your voice rises, hate the heat behind your eyes. Andy comes closer, and you want to slap him and also want him to hold you. You flex your jaw, force your gaze to stay away.

He listens. He lets you say it all, and when it’s out of your mouth, tumbling and ugly, he says, “I know. But there are things I can’t and won’t tell you. I can’t ever expose you to certain things. I won’t allow them near you.” His voice is all iron and velvet. “I’m protecting you, even if it doesn’t look or feel like it.”

He lets the pause hang, then takes a slight step closer—close enough that you nearly shiver at the radius of his heat.

There are things I won’t shield you from, either. You told me to never lie, so I won’t pretend I’m made another way. But I will always come back.” He says it softly, neither a threat nor a comfort.

After a lengthy moment of silence, you tell him, “I don’t want another night like this. I don’t want to ever be stranded in the dark.”

He considers it. Not with a smirk or a challenge, but real intent, a resolution hardening. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I’m not good enough,” he says, and it is the flattest, most relentless admission. “But I am what you’re marrying.”

You should laugh. You almost do, at the incredulity, the audacity, the unfairness of his answer, of this entire situation, but then he reaches out, just a single knuckle under your chin, and you’re suddenly taking in a shaky breath.

You hold his eyes for a full count, your body picking up the stutter of your pulse, anger and want running convergent through your system. You want to turn away, to break the connection, but you can’t.

“Then show me. Make it better,” you say, and your voice is a command, not a plea.

You let him guide your face up. His thumb travels a gentle path down your jaw. He leans in, pressing his words, and his mouth, against your skin. “You want more than this? I will never give you less.” The last of it is a murmur, not a vow, but it lives in the hollow between you, nudging the edge of promise.

He kisses you behind the ear, slow and intentional, and your whole body contracts around the point of contact. You hate how even this controlled display of contrition draws you in. Were you less tired, were it not the night before your wedding, you may have pushed him away. But he knows exactly how to pull on the string that unravels you, and you can’t leave it at that, so you cup his face and press your mouth against his, not sweet or apologetic but with a frustrated need to bite, to mark. He lets you, opens willingly, tongue flicking yours, and the pressure he uses to guide you toward the bed is insistent. You pull him with you, backwards, the two of you bumping knees, bumping hips, his hands already finding the tie at your robe and making short work of it.

He pulls it from your shoulders, lets it float to the carpet with exaggerated gentleness that’s belied by the urgency of his mouth and hands. You take brief satisfaction in yanking at his shirt buttons, two of them tumbling somewhere onto the bedding, but Andy just shrugs out of the rest and lets it fall to the floor.

He is, as you’ve come to expect, taller and heavier than you in the moments that matter. He pins you beneath him, stretching your arms above your head, taking his time as if you both aren’t aching with a violent need. He kisses you with a patience that does not match the tension in his body, hands working down your ribs, touching and teasing the places he’s learned draw your responses.

You let him press you down, let him grind against you, clothed below the waist but with a bare chest and a punishing grip as he presses one of your thighs up and open for him. Your silk nightgown is tangled above your hips, ruined for decency, and the sheets under you bunch as you wrap your leg around him.

You are not even sure when you stop resisting—the anger, the loneliness—maybe when he murmurs, “I’m here,” into the shell of your ear, or maybe it’s before that, at the familiar drag of his teeth across your shoulder. You want to snarl at him, but you can only gasp and tear one of your hands away so you can grab for his waistband, the zipper, too impatient for finesse.

The button resists for half a second before you hear the pop. Andy’s hips cant, the gesture half involuntary. He is, unlike you, a master at not showing his hunger—unless he wants you to see it, and tonight he must, because the restraint rubs your skin raw in a way that’s almost a dare. You dig your heel into the mattress, lift your pelvis to grind into the urgency that’s thickening between your bodies. He lets you, but barely; his hand catches your thigh, squeezes, and you wonder if there will be marks tomorrow. You hope so.

He pulls back, and you make a desperate, wordless noise—appalled at the empty space, the abrupt loss of him. Andy grins, a glint of teeth in the dark, and then he’s dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes black and bottomless. “Patience,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I want you naked for me. Completely.”

You’re tempted to resist him, to force him to earn the reveal, but you want the heat and the gaze and—more than anything—the feeling of him unraveling for you. So you tug the nightgown up and off, shimmying as best you can.

Andy reaches out to assist, dragging your panties off in a single, practiced movement, leaving you splayed open and vulnerable in the spill of moonlight, the air cold and sharp against your skin.

He stands, shucking his pants and boxers with ease. His cock is already hard, and he takes himself in hand, stroking slow, almost lazy, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his forearm tightens, every line of his body at the edge of restraint. He stands there for a moment, head tipped, just watching you with that focus, just this side of feral. It should alarm you. It should, maybe, make you recoil, the ferocity in him, so unlike the men you’ve known before. It’s a look that should have scared you from the beginning—but no one has wanted you the way he wants you, and you’ve grown addicted to how Andy’s hunger works.

You want to wipe that look of composure from his face, and you know exactly how to do it. You arch your back, knees falling apart, and bring your fingers to your cunt—slow, deliberate. Andy’s mouth parts the barest inch, but he doesn’t move to stop you. You circle your clit with two fingers, the slide easy and slick, and moan just loud enough that you know he’ll hear it for days. He watches, lips parted, and the tension in his neck sings.

“Is this what you want?” you ask.

You don’t wait for an answer. You drag a slick, purposeful circle with your fingertip, then roll your hips up again, forcing his attention onto the precise spot you want it. Your other hand moves to your breast, pinching a nipple until the ache flashes through your belly. You moan again, longer, keeping your eyes pinned to his as though you can draw out his release through sheer insistence.

Andy comes closer, his hand sliding up your calf, kneading the inside of your knee with enough pressure to make you gasp and lose the rhythm of your own touch. He takes your wrist in his, slows your movements, and brings your fingers to his mouth. He licks them, savoring your taste, then sucks the tips into the heat of him, eyes trained on yours the whole time. “You want to make me lose control?” he murmurs. “You’re close, sweetheart.”

You shudder, half from his voice and half from the pleasure needling up your legs. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Flip over,” he says, and you obey. Not because you care to perform for him, but because this is the only language you speak fluently with each other.

You turn, face pillowed in moonlight, the curve of your ass arched and on display. The sheets are cool under your cheek. Andy’s hands find your hips, not rough but absolute, his palms broad and braced. He kneads you for a long moment, a brief, silent exhibition of ownership, before running his thumb down the seam of you, spreading you open with the same clinical certainty he uses to carve out secrets.

He fucks you in one smooth, relentless motion, every inch filling you until your body feels engineered for the shape of him. You groan from the fullness, and he groans being sheathed inside your cunt. He leans forward, curling over you, and presses a kiss into your neck.

He holds you there, pressed hard against the mattress, your knees bracing apart as his cock drives into you with a steadiness that’s almost brutal but never crosses over into pain. You have only ever known men in this position to get greedy, to lose their pacing almost immediately, but Andy’s rhythm is a ruthless metronome, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, calibrated to keep you right at the edge.

His weight is a gravity you loathe and crave; you let him press you into the bed and hold you there. You’re still angry, still trembling, but everything is blurred with your arousal, your hunger, the lines so tangled you can barely see the difference.

You try to deny him your pleasure out of spite, but it’s a losing proposition—Andy finds the angle he wants, rocks into you so that you choke on a half-sob, and holds there until you scratch at the sheets, half-crazed. The sound you make is ugly and desperate, and the only thing worse is how much you want him to hear it, to be stoked by it, to see what he does to you. He seems to sense this, his voice a gravel scrape against your shoulder blade. “Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want it.”

His thumb finds your clit, presses in tight, and for a few strokes you somehow resist, but then your hips buck and your vision splotches out, and you do let him hear how much you want him. It’s exquisite. He continues to fuck into you, working your clit, every nerve burning, every muscle tightening in a white, brutal wave. He fucks you through it, groaning, not letting up until a second, sharper quake rips through your body. Then and only then does Andy let himself go—slamming into you, his hand a vise around your hip as he spends himself, jaw pressed to your spine. The shudder of him fully inside you is shocking, almost convulsive, and he bucks in you until the last aftershocks fade and the only sound in the room is two desperate people fighting for air.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there, draped over your body, letting you catch your breath, his weight an absolute. When he does finally move, he’s slow and careful, laying beside you and rolling you into his arms, not a word spoken. You’re still too fogged by want and exhaustion to move, content to let him hold you close, the press of his cheek against your hair. Neither of you speak for a very long time.

But there are thoughts you still need him to hear.

You find your voice in the hush, not loud or demanding but plain, with the rough edge of sleep and aftershock. “I don’t want more nights like this,” you say, and you can feel the way Andy’s chest stills under your hand. “I didn’t want to be coerced into your bed, I didn’t want to be forced into an engagement, I didn’t want to get married like this. You exploited the attraction, you’ve made me weak for you, but please,” your voice breaks, “please don’t make me the wife who has to wait up alone for you.”

Andy doesn’t speak, not at first, and the silence unsettles you, but you make yourself hold it—make yourself show that it matters. You refuse to shrink or swallow the need. If he’s going to be the kind of man who pulls you into his orbit, he’s damn well going to know he can’t just leave you in the dark. Not without a fight. He’s made slow but small shifts in some areas you’ve pressed with him. Maybe you can have resonance here, too.

He smooths a hand from your shoulder, down your back, each pass gentler than the last. He’s thinking, you know. Not just brushing off what you said, but actually holding it up to the light, inspecting the seams. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and soft, but firm.

“I meant it when I said I’d do my best,” he says. “I don’t want you to be her—the wife who waits at the window. But I also can’t give up what I am.” His hand lingers at your waist, a heavy presence.

You sigh, too thoroughly boneless to summon the right words, so you simply roll over, and it’s too natural how your body melds against him as he curls his arm around you and pulls your back flush against his chest. All you can do now is hope your sentiments will start to seep into him through osmosis.

You let the silence ride a little longer, curled together as if this is some and listen to the slowing cadence of his breath, to the metallic taste of words you didn’t say, and you wonder if this is what love might be—the willingness to be furious and still stay.

And you wonder if this is love—not because it’s gentle or clean or what you imagined, but because it has weight, because it has teeth, because it sits in your chest like a stone you keep reaching for. Because you are angry and ruined and held, and somehow all three of those things are the same thing. Because no one has seen you the way he does. Because no one has made you feel so wanted, even if it’s infused with possession. But even through the moments you know there are things he isn’t telling you, you know he’s never lied to you. Even when he says things you don’t want to hear, he speaks to you openly. Even when his actions are incendiary and disagreeable, they’re still somehow for you now.

He says your name. It’s a quiet thing, a soft push through the dark, but it lands with a rattle in your chest.

“I want to tell you something,” Andy says. “Not because you asked, but because if you’re going to be my wife, you will need to know.”

You swallow, knowing instinctively that to interrupt is to lose the tiny, trembling momentum inside him. He never initiates these confessions. He’s all action, never exposition. You hold your body still, afraid any breath will snap the thread.

“They brought me in tonight to consult on a sit-down. Not a war, but something close. One of the families in Jersey—Lupo’s people—made a move on Levinson’s properties—of one of our allies—along the North River. Not a huge play, but enough to draw blood. No one got shot. But next time, someone will.” Andy’s hand flexes at your hip, tightening like a vise. “If that happens, everything changes. This life, the way we can have it, ends. The only thing that keeps us—keeps you—safe, is the order.” He breathes out, a single tight exhale. “If the peace goes, I can’t guarantee anything. Not for you, not for me. And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, sheets cooling under your legs, and you realize what he’s giving you is not reassurance, but the truth of his world, knife-sharp and blood-warm. It should terrify you. It does, to a degree, but you’ve had a security detail, you know there are six loaded guns hidden here in the master suite. There is nothing normal about any of this, but the fact of Andy’s world is that it remains obsessively ordered only so long as no one has reason to start a war.

“When I have to go, I have to go, and I’ll never apologize for that,” he adds when you don’t say anything more.

Thea joked about reading mafia romance novels, but this is not a genre, this is your life now. When you let the reality land, it isn’t just gravity, but something like inheritance: no matter what you wanted or didn’t, you’re marrying into all of this.

And yet, as you lie there, taken apart and held tightly yet again, you find a calm in yourself you didn’t realize you could access. Maybe it’s the spill of adrenaline draining away, or the simple fact that Andy—your future husband, in a matter of hours—has finally handed you the truest thing he’s ever said. Everything is always at risk.

But if the world really is this dangerous, you’ve no doubt you’re held by the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and since he stopped at nothing to secure you, he will stop at nothing to keep you secure.

Uncle Rob! Thea! Andy! A Levinson name drop?!

There are so many things here that I've been plotting for ages, and so I think it's half the reason it took me so long to finish this chapter. Back in May I had written what I thought was about 3k to make up the first half of the chapter, but something about it just wasn't working, so I pulled it apart, kept a few of the scraps, and went back to the drawin board. I'm pleased where it finally ended up, and even though I know parts of this story are frustrating (coughSOMEOFANDY'SBEHAVIORcough), I do hope you all like the chapter.

And I know this is at the verrrrrry tail end of Monday for the first of what I'm hoping will be I'm Your Man Monday, but we made it! So we'll see if I can make this happen and get you another update next week!

NEXT PART: For Better and For Worse

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The flight in the private jet back to Boston is the first time you’re confined to a space alone with Andy since the morning after everything unraveled at the villa. The two of you had orbited around each other, and he’d only forced your company for the social engagements. It had been shocking, and you had expected there to be some point at which he’d demand an interaction.

But he hadn’t.

Even the morning of your departure, there’d been a note left on the kitchen counter that there was business associate he and Lloyd had to take a meeting with, and so he’d see you on the tarmac.

He hadn’t taken any meetings for nearly seven weeks, so why he had one on your final day seemed like an excuse, but one you were glad he’d made.

You keep to yourself for the first hour, blanketing yourself in music and noise-canceling the entire plane. The flight attendant brings you food; you turn it down. Andy doesn’t even look up from his tablet or whatever he’s staring at. You’re astounded by the discipline, the sheer restraint. Seven weeks of being together—sleeping together, eating together, sometimes not even breathing unless the other was in the room—and now you’re basically anonymous passengers to each other on a plane. You should be grateful for the reprieve, but it makes you feel something worse than anger. It’s a fatigue that’s half heartbreak and half relief, an exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones, making it hard to want anything at all—not even vengeance.

For the last week you’ve harbored the exhaustion of wanting something you’re ashamed of wanting, the kind that makes thirty-five thousand feet of sky feel like the bottom of the ocean.

Even now, you think about calling your mom or calling Thea, and you can’t stomach it. You don’t want to be the fool who messed up again, and you know neither of them would let you feel that way, you do know that. But you still can’t stomach having to talk about everything that’s happened.

You look up at the roof of the cabin when the familiar ache at the back of your throat gets worse, when you realize your vision has gone blurry at the edges. You let yourself cry only once at the villa. You don’t want to be crying, and you certainly don’t want him to see it, but of course he does.

You feel it before you look up—the cabin contracting, his attention shifting from deliberate absence to something still and fixed. When you look over, he’s there, eyes on you, not bothering to look away.

He’s not glaring. He’s not smirking. He’s just sitting there, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, as if he’s waiting for a verdict or maybe for you to say something—but you have nothing to say to him, not right now, not ever in a way that wouldn’t cost you more than you can afford.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars, then look away, back to the window. Nothing out there—just black, the kind that makes you feel like the plane is standing still, like there’s nowhere left to arrive. The hum of the cabin fills in around the edges. You. Him. Whatever it is you’re going to have to figure out how to carry when you land.

He does finally speak, somewhere over Newfoundland, in a tone so flat it could almost be the engine noise.

He says your name. Not Mrs. Not wife. Just your first name, like it’s a code word or a trigger. It floats across the cabin and you can feel it snag deep in your ribs, a sudden, sharp tug. You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“I know I can’t fix what happened in Italy,” he says. His voice is calm—not soft, not kind, just controlled. “But I want to know if you’re coming back to Boston as my partner, or as my hostage.”

You laugh, a sharp, biting sound that comes out before you can stop it. “Was there ever a choice?”

He lets it hang. The cabin is silent but for the white noise of engines and air rushing past aluminum. Quite reluctantly, you look at him. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced, hands locked tightly together.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, and the rattle of the cart in the galley is the only sign the world is continuing outside of this conversation. “The life we’re going back to is not going to feel like that house.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” you say, “You told me yourself—liminal space, not real life. Isn’t it a relief to get back to the world you designed?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He lets the words pool between you, absorbs them. His stare is unwavering, stripping away the distance between your seats, but it’s not cruel—if anything, it’s the most exposed you’ve seen him outside the night he gave you his mother’s brush.

“No, it’s not a relief,” Andy says finally. “It’s a liability.” He stops. Inhales. “You’re a liability.”

You did not expect those words, and almost lands as an insult, but instead you’re almost proud—finally, something true and ugly, not polished for effect. “I’ll try not to be,” you say with a humorless smile, but the ache in your throat is getting worse, and now it’s not from fatigue.

He sighs, and you hear the edge of human tiredness in him, not the constructed fatigue of someone performing the part. “I know I was ruthless with you. I know what I am.”

The questions of why did you do any of it, then? why take the risk? why force me? why pretend? swirl in you like a storm, but you don’t let any of them out in this moment.

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Andy absorbs this. He doesn’t try to talk you down or walk back the truth you’ve lobbed at him. He just rubs a hand over his bearded jaw, and when it drops away, you see the faint trembling in his fingers.

“I didn’t want it to end that way,” he says at last, staring at the tabletop between you like it might yield the correct answer if he keeps staring. “I thought if I took you far enough away, surrounded us with something perfect, we could…” He searches for the word, but even he doesn’t seem to know what shape to give it. “It doesn’t matter.”

You almost want to ask him what it was supposed to be between you, but what does it matter? How are you supposed to trust any of it?

Andy turns his head, gaze fixed on the oval window, the blue-white arc of the jet’s wing. “I can’t shut it off,” he says after a long beat. “I thought with you, maybe—” He stops. “I wanted to.”

You blink, not sure you heard it right. Maybe he’s angling for sympathy, but the words don’t quite land that way; they’re surrendered, not given.

You almost say, I wanted that, too. But the words feel buried under the weight in your throat. You’ve been in almost this spot with him before, and you won’t give him another soft admission this time.

You remember the reverence in his voice one of those blissful, happy nights in Lake Como, a tone you’d never heard before.

“I like us here,” he’d murmured into your ear.

And you, caught in the spell of it, had admitted, “I do, too.”

“I’ll be in New York for the next week. Maybe two.” Like he’s talking about going out for a carton of milk. “There are things I need to set in order since I’ve been gone.”

Everything inside you wants to spit something cruel, but you just nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the window. “You’ll have Shep and Mark. I’m not leaving you unprotected. But…” he pauses. Sighs, the word dissolving before it’s fully formed. “You can do what you want with the time.” You wonder if he thinks this is a kindness. If he expects gratitude. You say nothing. The silence endures, painful, invasive. He says, “I’ll be out of your way,” again, softer, and this time you almost believe he means it as penance.

You land at Logan airport. The customs officials board the plane and clear you for re-entry. The black Range Rover is waiting on the tarmac, backseat climate-controlled and softly lit, Mark up front, Shep waiting with the rear door open, his posture all respectful deference and zero curiosity.

Andy doesn’t make a show of seeing you to the car. He simply helps load your bag in the trunk and shakes Shep’s hand as if he’s passing along a charge. There’s no hug, no goodbye, but there is one last look. Short, and with a nod. Then he’s on the phone before you’ve finished getting into the back seat, and he’s striding back to climb the stairs into the plane and leave you for New York.

The city’s lights seem surgical after weeks of olive oil and sun, a whole different wavelength—unfamiliar, then familiar, because Boston is still utterly, inescapably home. The perimeter of things you have to face here is coming into focus, and beyond the ache in your ribcage and the hollowing exhaustion, there is a brittle sense that you are braced for it. At least some parts are. The rest is raw and soft and probably always will be.

You expect the house to be cold and dark, but you forgot that Andy’s people would keep the mechanisms of daily life humming and stoke them back to full life for your return. The lights are on, the entry immaculate, flowers everywhere.

The re-entry is a shock to the system. You wander upstairs and stand under the shower’s sterile, even heat, so different from the sun-warmed water at the villa. You let the cold marble chill your feet, a grounding sensation, and watch condensation erase your reflection in the glass.

You are halfway dried off and dressed in a robe when you hear Shep’s voice through the hallway, relaying some detail of tomorrow’s schedule to Mark—something about groceries and deliveries and your standing appointment at the studio. You almost want to cry at the normalcy. The urge to resent Andy for anticipating all your needs, for giving you back this version of your life like it’s a favor is strong, and yet it’s a relief to not have to fight for things to start up again.

You are almost ready to crawl into bed and lose yourself in a marathon of whatever the algorithm serves you, but there’s a knock at your bedroom door. You’re so unused to being summoned that your first thought is that you imagined it. The knock comes again, firmer.

A voice follows: “Ma’am?” It’s Shep.

You cinch the robe, open the door. Shep stands there, hands folded in front of him, gaze respectfully averted.

“Shep, you really can’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re, what? Eight? Ten years older than me? It’s weird.”

He gives a short, almost silent laugh. “Forgive me. It’s not a matter of age. It’s just—never first names, not in this line of work.” His words settle with a gentle finality, as if he’s stating one of the few things in his world that is simply not negotiable. You want to argue—tease, even—but there’s a dignity in Shep’s posture that tells you he’s not performing. It’s not subordination, but a kind of personal code. “If you don’t want ma’am, I can use Mrs. Barber, or an equivalent. But never your first name. That’s not respectful.”

You almost smile at this. “Fine,” you say, “ma’am if you absolutely must. But you can drop the tone like you’re addressing the principal.”

He nods, a fraction less rigid. “Understood.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Is this just a courtesy check, or?”

“No, there’s a small matter that needs your attention down in the kitchen.”

“Alright, give me just a moment.”

He nods, and you close the door. You throw on leggings and a cashmere sweater, not bothering with makeup or anything else, and head down the wide staircase, following Shep. “What about a nickname? Like my security detail codename! You have those for us, right? Like the Secret Service?”

“Your codename on the records is ‘Mrs. Barber.’”

“That’s lame,” you huff. “It literally couldn’t be anything more interesting than that?”

Shep’s shoulders hint at a shrug, and the movement smooths out his usual ex-military stony bearing. “He insisted upon it from day one, ma’am, but we all would have. Codenames are for assets, not family. You’re not an asset.”

“I might as well be,” you mutter. But you drop it as Shep steers you into the kitchen, where the lights are bright, the air is flush with the smell of American fast food, and two figures you’d know anywhere are such a profound relief you could weep.

Your parents are standing at the island, your father in his battered Red Sox sweatshirt and your mother wearing a navy cardigan you would have called “teacher-core” if you had the emotional bandwidth for jokes. She’s unpacking a paper bag from Shake Shack, a guilty-pleasure custom sandwich in each hand. Your dad is setting out cartons of fries and the crinkle-cut pickles that only your mother will touch, and both parents look up in the same instant when they see you.

For one sharp, embarrassing second you nearly cry. Not from homesickness, but an animal relief you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay for weeks. You’re in your own kitchen, your parents are here, and you have never felt so much like a child in your adult life.

Your mother, of course, crosses the kitchen in three steps, gathers you in a hug so tight you hope your ribs pop. She doesn’t let go, not when your dad comes around to add his own arms, both of them holding you in a sandwich of warmth and cheap detergent and fryer grease.

She smells your hair, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face to the light. “You look too thin,” she says, which is her form of ‘I missed you so much it hurts,’ and you almost laugh, because you know you undoubtedly filled out more with all the indulgent meals and sweets that you never worried about at the villa.

“Oh, she’s fine,” your dad says, and then to you, “You look great, kid.” He scuffs your shoulder and draws you in, rolling his eyes at your mother in the way of a man who has built his whole life around loving her, and of course you.

You mumble something about not expecting them, as you step back.

“Did we overstep?” your mom flusters. “Andy texted us yesterday that you were coming home but that he had to go directly out of town for a bit, and he said there’d be nobody here to greet you. I thought—”

“We didn’t want you coming home to an empty house,” your father finishes.

You’re hit with the double impact of their presence—the comfort of being known and the mortification of being inspected by people who will always see more than you want them to.

“You didn’t overstep,” you say, because you realize it’s the closest thing to relief you’ve felt since boarding the plane. “I just. I’m really glad to see you.”

Your mother beams. “You don’t have to thank us, dear. You know we’d walk through fire for you.” She is, as ever, immediately in motion, pulling a chair out and patting it, already unwrapping your sandwich, refilling your water bottle, doggedly ignoring the bags under your eyes and the maternal worry warping every word. “Sit, sit, and tell us everything.”

You sit with them at the kitchen island, because that’s what you’ve always done, and let them fuss and fill your plate and ask questions you are both eager and terrified to answer as you fill your stomach with food that feels like home.

You do not tell your parents about the end of what happened in Italy, but you do tell them every detail of the lake, the food, the neighbors, and Lloyd—your mother wants to know everything, leaning forward on her elbows, and your father sits back with his arms crossed and a look on his face like he can’t quite decide if Lloyd is the funniest thing he’s ever heard or if you’re making him up. You leave out his mafia affiliation, of course.

You focus on what isn’t hard to say: the meals, the wine, the impossible blue of the water, the way Andy cooked from his mother’s recipe book. You skip all the nights of the last week, and edit your time down to just sun and laughter and the gradual narrowing of a world to the shape of the villa.

You let yourself be cared for. With every bite of the familiar food, every casual question about their friends, the tension in your shoulders eases. They are a shelter you didn’t know you were desperate for. You watch them, these people who have nursed you through everything, and know their love could contain the entire ugly truth. But the words won’t come—not about Andy, not about a marriage that feels both forced upon you and chosen, the two truths tangled so tightly you can’t find the start of either one. Especially not now, with damage you haven’t yet found the language for.

When your mother’s phone lights up mid-anecdote with a call from one of her friends, she excuses herself with an apologetic grimace and heads down the hall. You expect her to linger in the mudroom or maybe stand in the foyer, but she vanishes properly, leaving you and your father alone at the island.

He checks to make sure your mother is out of earshot, then sighs and leans in, folding his arms on the stone counter. He’s never been good at letting silence hang, so you brace for the bluntness you know is coming.

He says your name, softly. “Level with me. Are you okay?”

You look at your father, and your first impulse is to say, yes, of course, because you always want to be his strong, brave little girl. But you’re beyond empty, and the real answer is floating so close to the surface.

“No,” you say. “But I will be.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and you recall, with a sick kind of fondness, how your dad has never bought a single lie out of your mouth, not since you were six and inventing elaborate reasons for missing homework. He waits. His face settles into something patient and unguarded, the same expression you remember from every hard conversation you’ve ever had at a kitchen table with this man.

You flex your fingers around your glass, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there, and then you admit, honestly, “I don’t know, Dad.” Your voice comes out calm, steadier than you expected. “This all spun out a little faster than I thought it would.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the Shake Shack wrappers between you. “Your mother threw a plate at me once.” He says it quietly, picking at a napkin. “1987. We’d been married two years. I’m not telling you marriage is hard—you know that.” He finally looks up, his eyes steady. “I’m just telling you it’s your choice. And if you ever needed to just… come home,” he gestures vaguely at the room around you, “you could. You know that, right?”

You force yourself to nod, not trusting your throat to work around too many words. “I know. I do.”

Your father’s face breaks into a tiny smile, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart entirely. He squeezes your hand, then clears his throat. “It’s better with a full stomach,” he says, gesturing at the wrappers, “and better with company.”

Your mother returns, phone call over. “You two didn’t finish all the fries, did you?”

You shake your head and say, “Wouldn’t dare.”

Your father passes the rest of his fries to her, and your heart thrums happily watching them.

The evening winds into a tangle of low, sweet moments—your mother gushing over some of the gorgeous kitchen appliances, your dad quietly snooping through the fridge and coming back with four pints of ice cream, and insists you all do blind taste tests until your tongue is numb and you cannot stop laughing.

Eventually the yawns win out, your mother shooing you off the kitchen stool like a child past her bedtime. You protest, but your body sags in grateful relief as she ushers you up the stairs. Your parents gather their things, making you promise to come by theirs Sunday for brunch and any other night you just want company while Andy’s gone.

Back upstairs, you truly internalize that you’ve never been alone like this in this bedroom alone before. It’s the same room, the same balcony view, the same walk-in closet and familiar textures, but no one was waiting, and no one will eventually join you.

Andy is not here. He is not coming—not tonight, not for a week, probably not for longer.

The actuality of it feels weirdly hollow.

You drift through the motions of bedtime. You try to read for a bit, and you’re sure you do, but the words blur and ghost by. Your teeth are brushed, your face is washed; you can’t quite remember doing either. You are so wrung out you can barely cobble together the will to change into pajamas. You settle for underwear and a t-shirt, and sink into the endless white of the sheets.

You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you surface again, it’s to a spill of midmorning light and an unfamiliar quiet. For a second you forget where you are. The confusion is clean, like you could be anyone and in any life, and you let it last until the dull ache in your chest has time to catch up, and you realize you’re in the bed, alone. You feel oddly rested. Not good, necessarily, but not the emotional hangover you’ve been battling back bit by bit each day, either. It’s as if your body has decided, somewhere deep inside, to metabolize all the heartbreak and embarrassment into a low, manageable hum now that you’re back in Boston.

You rouse yourself and stretch, expecting the sensation of Andy’s hand on your lower back, but there’s only the cool rush of linen and your own skin. You lie there, staring up. The ceiling molds itself around the sunlight in a way that makes you ache for the lake villa, for the slow, gold mornings that rewired you to want gentleness.

You get up, pad across the cold floor, and spend an aimless hour in the shower, letting the spray needle your scalp until your thoughts turn clear. You towel off, dress comfortably, and head for the kitchen, not even bothering with a bra or shoes because this giant house is where you live and you don’t care who sees you here.

After breakfast, you meander into your study, pleased to see your plants were well taken care of in your absence, but after only glancing at the elegant desk with your laptop, you wander back out and head upstairs again.

You settle for the easiest distraction: unpacking. You’d only pulled out a couple of essentials the night before, and the suitcases are still half-zipped and listing open on the bench in the walk-in closet, the contents slumped and jumbled, exactly as you left them in the haze of last night. You unfold a tangle of linen dresses, roll up the last of the swimsuits. The second suitcase ends up containing the soft things you’d loved in Italy and the handful of gifts Andy had forced on you (a silk robe, the ridiculous but beautiful leather boots, the scarf you’re embarrassed you already missed). You’re nearly finished when you see it: a heavy cream envelope, not sealed, with your name written in Andy’s all-caps print.

You pause, thumb knocking the edge, considering whether to open, wait for some future courage, or refuse to read it altogether.

You stand in the middle of the closet, the envelope dense with the weight of what it might contain, and make yourself hold it for a count of ten, the way you once trained yourself to resist the urge to scratch mosquito bites as a child. Then you set it on the bench, hands steady, and back away as if it might be hot to the touch. You busy yourself with the rest of the suitcase, but your eyes keep wandering to the envelope. Eventually, you give in—how could you not—and stalk out of the closet, grab your phone, and hit Andy’s number before you can change your mind.

He answers before the second ring is finished. “I was waiting to see how long it would take,” he says, not quite soft, but without the shield of irony.

You don’t let him steer any further, not this time. “I found your letter,” you say.

There is a half-beat of stillness, then, “You haven’t opened it yet.” Not a question. A reading of you, as accurate as it is infuriating.

“No.” You squeeze the phone tighter, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I hate you for knowing that.” You mean it to land with more weight, but it sounds raw.

“I figured you’d start with a text,” he replies, “but this is better.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to inhale, to let the silence expand before finally finding the words you want. “I can’t believe you wrote me a letter,” you tell him, and now the irritation has a shape and a target. “You don’t get to be Mr. Darcy. You don’t get to drop all this on a page.”

Andy lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not pretending to be noble or romantic, or whatever you want to call it. I wrote it because I thought… I thought it might be easier for you to hear without having to look at me. Or fight me. Or argue.” A pause. “And maybe as a showing that I heard you and that you can read it in your own time. Or you don’t have to read it at all. It’s your choice.”

You want to hang up, to tell him that nothing on a page can fix the fact that you’re speaking only because of a letter he left for you to find, like some reverse land mine meant to detonate all of your resolve. But you don’t hang up.

“I might read it,” you say. You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to your ear. You don’t look at the envelope. “But since you might be listening, I’ll say this: I don’t care what you wrote. I need you to know it’s not about the letter. It’s about whether I can trust you to give me a real choice. A real relationship. Ever.”

Andy’s breathing is barely audible. “I know,” he says.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you tell him.

“Okay.” The word is a soft exhalation. Then he says your name, and you wait another moment before ending the call. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always answer. No matter what.”

For those of you who were hurt/betrayed/livid after last chapter: I want you to know Andy doesn't get a quick fix overnight. I promise.

For better or for worse, because of how things combusted between them in Italy, our reader is going to be more assertive, more resistant, and hold her boundaries and demands more firmly. She still holds complicated feelings for him, but the feelings won't excuse or circumvent things anymore.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The flight in the private jet back to Boston is the first time you’re confined to a space alone with Andy since the morning after everything unraveled at the villa. The two of you had orbited around each other, and he’d only forced your company for the social engagements. It had been shocking, and you had expected there to be some point at which he’d demand an interaction.

But he hadn’t.

Even the morning of your departure, there’d been a note left on the kitchen counter that there was business associate he and Lloyd had to take a meeting with, and so he’d see you on the tarmac.

He hadn’t taken any meetings for nearly seven weeks, so why he had one on your final day seemed like an excuse, but one you were glad he’d made.

You keep to yourself for the first hour, blanketing yourself in music and noise-canceling the entire plane. The flight attendant brings you food; you turn it down. Andy doesn’t even look up from his tablet or whatever he’s staring at. You’re astounded by the discipline, the sheer restraint. Seven weeks of being together—sleeping together, eating together, sometimes not even breathing unless the other was in the room—and now you’re basically anonymous passengers to each other on a plane. You should be grateful for the reprieve, but it makes you feel something worse than anger. It’s a fatigue that’s half heartbreak and half relief, an exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones, making it hard to want anything at all—not even vengeance.

For the last week you’ve harbored the exhaustion of wanting something you’re ashamed of wanting, the kind that makes thirty-five thousand feet of sky feel like the bottom of the ocean.

Even now, you think about calling your mom or calling Thea, and you can’t stomach it. You don’t want to be the fool who messed up again, and you know neither of them would let you feel that way, you do know that. But you still can’t stomach having to talk about everything that’s happened.

You look up at the roof of the cabin when the familiar ache at the back of your throat gets worse, when you realize your vision has gone blurry at the edges. You let yourself cry only once at the villa. You don’t want to be crying, and you certainly don’t want him to see it, but of course he does.

You feel it before you look up—the cabin contracting, his attention shifting from deliberate absence to something still and fixed. When you look over, he’s there, eyes on you, not bothering to look away.

He’s not glaring. He’s not smirking. He’s just sitting there, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, as if he’s waiting for a verdict or maybe for you to say something—but you have nothing to say to him, not right now, not ever in a way that wouldn’t cost you more than you can afford.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars, then look away, back to the window. Nothing out there—just black, the kind that makes you feel like the plane is standing still, like there’s nowhere left to arrive. The hum of the cabin fills in around the edges. You. Him. Whatever it is you’re going to have to figure out how to carry when you land.

He does finally speak, somewhere over Newfoundland, in a tone so flat it could almost be the engine noise.

He says your name. Not Mrs. Not wife. Just your first name, like it’s a code word or a trigger. It floats across the cabin and you can feel it snag deep in your ribs, a sudden, sharp tug. You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“I know I can’t fix what happened in Italy,” he says. His voice is calm—not soft, not kind, just controlled. “But I want to know if you’re coming back to Boston as my partner, or as my hostage.”

You laugh, a sharp, biting sound that comes out before you can stop it. “Was there ever a choice?”

He lets it hang. The cabin is silent but for the white noise of engines and air rushing past aluminum. Quite reluctantly, you look at him. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced, hands locked tightly together.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, and the rattle of the cart in the galley is the only sign the world is continuing outside of this conversation. “The life we’re going back to is not going to feel like that house.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” you say, “You told me yourself—liminal space, not real life. Isn’t it a relief to get back to the world you designed?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He lets the words pool between you, absorbs them. His stare is unwavering, stripping away the distance between your seats, but it’s not cruel—if anything, it’s the most exposed you’ve seen him outside the night he gave you his mother’s brush.

“No, it’s not a relief,” Andy says finally. “It’s a liability.” He stops. Inhales. “You’re a liability.”

You did not expect those words, and almost lands as an insult, but instead you’re almost proud—finally, something true and ugly, not polished for effect. “I’ll try not to be,” you say with a humorless smile, but the ache in your throat is getting worse, and now it’s not from fatigue.

He sighs, and you hear the edge of human tiredness in him, not the constructed fatigue of someone performing the part. “I know I was ruthless with you. I know what I am.”

The questions of why did you do any of it, then? why take the risk? why force me? why pretend? swirl in you like a storm, but you don’t let any of them out in this moment.

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Andy absorbs this. He doesn’t try to talk you down or walk back the truth you’ve lobbed at him. He just rubs a hand over his bearded jaw, and when it drops away, you see the faint trembling in his fingers.

“I didn’t want it to end that way,” he says at last, staring at the tabletop between you like it might yield the correct answer if he keeps staring. “I thought if I took you far enough away, surrounded us with something perfect, we could…” He searches for the word, but even he doesn’t seem to know what shape to give it. “It doesn’t matter.”

You almost want to ask him what it was supposed to be between you, but what does it matter? How are you supposed to trust any of it?

Andy turns his head, gaze fixed on the oval window, the blue-white arc of the jet’s wing. “I can’t shut it off,” he says after a long beat. “I thought with you, maybe—” He stops. “I wanted to.”

You blink, not sure you heard it right. Maybe he’s angling for sympathy, but the words don’t quite land that way; they’re surrendered, not given.

You almost say, I wanted that, too. But the words feel buried under the weight in your throat. You’ve been in almost this spot with him before, and you won’t give him another soft admission this time.

You remember the reverence in his voice one of those blissful, happy nights in Lake Como, a tone you’d never heard before.

“I like us here,” he’d murmured into your ear.

And you, caught in the spell of it, had admitted, “I do, too.”

“I’ll be in New York for the next week. Maybe two.” Like he’s talking about going out for a carton of milk. “There are things I need to set in order since I’ve been gone.”

Everything inside you wants to spit something cruel, but you just nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the window. “You’ll have Shep and Mark. I’m not leaving you unprotected. But…” he pauses. Sighs, the word dissolving before it’s fully formed. “You can do what you want with the time.” You wonder if he thinks this is a kindness. If he expects gratitude. You say nothing. The silence endures, painful, invasive. He says, “I’ll be out of your way,” again, softer, and this time you almost believe he means it as penance.

You land at Logan airport. The customs officials board the plane and clear you for re-entry. The black Range Rover is waiting on the tarmac, backseat climate-controlled and softly lit, Mark up front, Shep waiting with the rear door open, his posture all respectful deference and zero curiosity.

Andy doesn’t make a show of seeing you to the car. He simply helps load your bag in the trunk and shakes Shep’s hand as if he’s passing along a charge. There’s no hug, no goodbye, but there is one last look. Short, and with a nod. Then he’s on the phone before you’ve finished getting into the back seat, and he’s striding back to climb the stairs into the plane and leave you for New York.

The city’s lights seem surgical after weeks of olive oil and sun, a whole different wavelength—unfamiliar, then familiar, because Boston is still utterly, inescapably home. The perimeter of things you have to face here is coming into focus, and beyond the ache in your ribcage and the hollowing exhaustion, there is a brittle sense that you are braced for it. At least some parts are. The rest is raw and soft and probably always will be.

You expect the house to be cold and dark, but you forgot that Andy’s people would keep the mechanisms of daily life humming and stoke them back to full life for your return. The lights are on, the entry immaculate, flowers everywhere.

The re-entry is a shock to the system. You wander upstairs and stand under the shower’s sterile, even heat, so different from the sun-warmed water at the villa. You let the cold marble chill your feet, a grounding sensation, and watch condensation erase your reflection in the glass.

You are halfway dried off and dressed in a robe when you hear Shep’s voice through the hallway, relaying some detail of tomorrow’s schedule to Mark—something about groceries and deliveries and your standing appointment at the studio. You almost want to cry at the normalcy. The urge to resent Andy for anticipating all your needs, for giving you back this version of your life like it’s a favor is strong, and yet it’s a relief to not have to fight for things to start up again.

You are almost ready to crawl into bed and lose yourself in a marathon of whatever the algorithm serves you, but there’s a knock at your bedroom door. You’re so unused to being summoned that your first thought is that you imagined it. The knock comes again, firmer.

A voice follows: “Ma’am?” It’s Shep.

You cinch the robe, open the door. Shep stands there, hands folded in front of him, gaze respectfully averted.

“Shep, you really can’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re, what? Eight? Ten years older than me? It’s weird.”

He gives a short, almost silent laugh. “Forgive me. It’s not a matter of age. It’s just—never first names, not in this line of work.” His words settle with a gentle finality, as if he’s stating one of the few things in his world that is simply not negotiable. You want to argue—tease, even—but there’s a dignity in Shep’s posture that tells you he’s not performing. It’s not subordination, but a kind of personal code. “If you don’t want ma’am, I can use Mrs. Barber, or an equivalent. But never your first name. That’s not respectful.”

You almost smile at this. “Fine,” you say, “ma’am if you absolutely must. But you can drop the tone like you’re addressing the principal.”

He nods, a fraction less rigid. “Understood.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Is this just a courtesy check, or?”

“No, there’s a small matter that needs your attention down in the kitchen.”

“Alright, give me just a moment.”

He nods, and you close the door. You throw on leggings and a cashmere sweater, not bothering with makeup or anything else, and head down the wide staircase, following Shep. “What about a nickname? Like my security detail codename! You have those for us, right? Like the Secret Service?”

“Your codename on the records is ‘Mrs. Barber.’”

“That’s lame,” you huff. “It literally couldn’t be anything more interesting than that?”

Shep’s shoulders hint at a shrug, and the movement smooths out his usual ex-military stony bearing. “He insisted upon it from day one, ma’am, but we all would have. Codenames are for assets, not family. You’re not an asset.”

“I might as well be,” you mutter. But you drop it as Shep steers you into the kitchen, where the lights are bright, the air is flush with the smell of American fast food, and two figures you’d know anywhere are such a profound relief you could weep.

Your parents are standing at the island, your father in his battered Red Sox sweatshirt and your mother wearing a navy cardigan you would have called “teacher-core” if you had the emotional bandwidth for jokes. She’s unpacking a paper bag from Shake Shack, a guilty-pleasure custom sandwich in each hand. Your dad is setting out cartons of fries and the crinkle-cut pickles that only your mother will touch, and both parents look up in the same instant when they see you.

For one sharp, embarrassing second you nearly cry. Not from homesickness, but an animal relief you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay for weeks. You’re in your own kitchen, your parents are here, and you have never felt so much like a child in your adult life.

Your mother, of course, crosses the kitchen in three steps, gathers you in a hug so tight you hope your ribs pop. She doesn’t let go, not when your dad comes around to add his own arms, both of them holding you in a sandwich of warmth and cheap detergent and fryer grease.

She smells your hair, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face to the light. “You look too thin,” she says, which is her form of ‘I missed you so much it hurts,’ and you almost laugh, because you know you undoubtedly filled out more with all the indulgent meals and sweets that you never worried about at the villa.

“Oh, she’s fine,” your dad says, and then to you, “You look great, kid.” He scuffs your shoulder and draws you in, rolling his eyes at your mother in the way of a man who has built his whole life around loving her, and of course you.

You mumble something about not expecting them, as you step back.

“Did we overstep?” your mom flusters. “Andy texted us yesterday that you were coming home but that he had to go directly out of town for a bit, and he said there’d be nobody here to greet you. I thought—”

“We didn’t want you coming home to an empty house,” your father finishes.

You’re hit with the double impact of their presence—the comfort of being known and the mortification of being inspected by people who will always see more than you want them to.

“You didn’t overstep,” you say, because you realize it’s the closest thing to relief you’ve felt since boarding the plane. “I just. I’m really glad to see you.”

Your mother beams. “You don’t have to thank us, dear. You know we’d walk through fire for you.” She is, as ever, immediately in motion, pulling a chair out and patting it, already unwrapping your sandwich, refilling your water bottle, doggedly ignoring the bags under your eyes and the maternal worry warping every word. “Sit, sit, and tell us everything.”

You sit with them at the kitchen island, because that’s what you’ve always done, and let them fuss and fill your plate and ask questions you are both eager and terrified to answer as you fill your stomach with food that feels like home.

You do not tell your parents about the end of what happened in Italy, but you do tell them every detail of the lake, the food, the neighbors, and Lloyd—your mother wants to know everything, leaning forward on her elbows, and your father sits back with his arms crossed and a look on his face like he can’t quite decide if Lloyd is the funniest thing he’s ever heard or if you’re making him up. You leave out his mafia affiliation, of course.

You focus on what isn’t hard to say: the meals, the wine, the impossible blue of the water, the way Andy cooked from his mother’s recipe book. You skip all the nights of the last week, and edit your time down to just sun and laughter and the gradual narrowing of a world to the shape of the villa.

You let yourself be cared for. With every bite of the familiar food, every casual question about their friends, the tension in your shoulders eases. They are a shelter you didn’t know you were desperate for. You watch them, these people who have nursed you through everything, and know their love could contain the entire ugly truth. But the words won’t come—not about Andy, not about a marriage that feels both forced upon you and chosen, the two truths tangled so tightly you can’t find the start of either one. Especially not now, with damage you haven’t yet found the language for.

When your mother’s phone lights up mid-anecdote with a call from one of her friends, she excuses herself with an apologetic grimace and heads down the hall. You expect her to linger in the mudroom or maybe stand in the foyer, but she vanishes properly, leaving you and your father alone at the island.

He checks to make sure your mother is out of earshot, then sighs and leans in, folding his arms on the stone counter. He’s never been good at letting silence hang, so you brace for the bluntness you know is coming.

He says your name, softly. “Level with me. Are you okay?”

You look at your father, and your first impulse is to say, yes, of course, because you always want to be his strong, brave little girl. But you’re beyond empty, and the real answer is floating so close to the surface.

“No,” you say. “But I will be.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and you recall, with a sick kind of fondness, how your dad has never bought a single lie out of your mouth, not since you were six and inventing elaborate reasons for missing homework. He waits. His face settles into something patient and unguarded, the same expression you remember from every hard conversation you’ve ever had at a kitchen table with this man.

You flex your fingers around your glass, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there, and then you admit, honestly, “I don’t know, Dad.” Your voice comes out calm, steadier than you expected. “This all spun out a little faster than I thought it would.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the Shake Shack wrappers between you. “Your mother threw a plate at me once.” He says it quietly, picking at a napkin. “1987. We’d been married two years. I’m not telling you marriage is hard—you know that.” He finally looks up, his eyes steady. “I’m just telling you it’s your choice. And if you ever needed to just… come home,” he gestures vaguely at the room around you, “you could. You know that, right?”

You force yourself to nod, not trusting your throat to work around too many words. “I know. I do.”

Your father’s face breaks into a tiny smile, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart entirely. He squeezes your hand, then clears his throat. “It’s better with a full stomach,” he says, gesturing at the wrappers, “and better with company.”

Your mother returns, phone call over. “You two didn’t finish all the fries, did you?”

You shake your head and say, “Wouldn’t dare.”

Your father passes the rest of his fries to her, and your heart thrums happily watching them.

The evening winds into a tangle of low, sweet moments—your mother gushing over some of the gorgeous kitchen appliances, your dad quietly snooping through the fridge and coming back with four pints of ice cream, and insists you all do blind taste tests until your tongue is numb and you cannot stop laughing.

Eventually the yawns win out, your mother shooing you off the kitchen stool like a child past her bedtime. You protest, but your body sags in grateful relief as she ushers you up the stairs. Your parents gather their things, making you promise to come by theirs Sunday for brunch and any other night you just want company while Andy’s gone.

Back upstairs, you truly internalize that you’ve never been alone like this in this bedroom alone before. It’s the same room, the same balcony view, the same walk-in closet and familiar textures, but no one was waiting, and no one will eventually join you.

Andy is not here. He is not coming—not tonight, not for a week, probably not for longer.

The actuality of it feels weirdly hollow.

You drift through the motions of bedtime. You try to read for a bit, and you’re sure you do, but the words blur and ghost by. Your teeth are brushed, your face is washed; you can’t quite remember doing either. You are so wrung out you can barely cobble together the will to change into pajamas. You settle for underwear and a t-shirt, and sink into the endless white of the sheets.

You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you surface again, it’s to a spill of midmorning light and an unfamiliar quiet. For a second you forget where you are. The confusion is clean, like you could be anyone and in any life, and you let it last until the dull ache in your chest has time to catch up, and you realize you’re in the bed, alone. You feel oddly rested. Not good, necessarily, but not the emotional hangover you’ve been battling back bit by bit each day, either. It’s as if your body has decided, somewhere deep inside, to metabolize all the heartbreak and embarrassment into a low, manageable hum now that you’re back in Boston.

You rouse yourself and stretch, expecting the sensation of Andy’s hand on your lower back, but there’s only the cool rush of linen and your own skin. You lie there, staring up. The ceiling molds itself around the sunlight in a way that makes you ache for the lake villa, for the slow, gold mornings that rewired you to want gentleness.

You get up, pad across the cold floor, and spend an aimless hour in the shower, letting the spray needle your scalp until your thoughts turn clear. You towel off, dress comfortably, and head for the kitchen, not even bothering with a bra or shoes because this giant house is where you live and you don’t care who sees you here.

After breakfast, you meander into your study, pleased to see your plants were well taken care of in your absence, but after only glancing at the elegant desk with your laptop, you wander back out and head upstairs again.

You settle for the easiest distraction: unpacking. You’d only pulled out a couple of essentials the night before, and the suitcases are still half-zipped and listing open on the bench in the walk-in closet, the contents slumped and jumbled, exactly as you left them in the haze of last night. You unfold a tangle of linen dresses, roll up the last of the swimsuits. The second suitcase ends up containing the soft things you’d loved in Italy and the handful of gifts Andy had forced on you (a silk robe, the ridiculous but beautiful leather boots, the scarf you’re embarrassed you already missed). You’re nearly finished when you see it: a heavy cream envelope, not sealed, with your name written in Andy’s all-caps print.

You pause, thumb knocking the edge, considering whether to open, wait for some future courage, or refuse to read it altogether.

You stand in the middle of the closet, the envelope dense with the weight of what it might contain, and make yourself hold it for a count of ten, the way you once trained yourself to resist the urge to scratch mosquito bites as a child. Then you set it on the bench, hands steady, and back away as if it might be hot to the touch. You busy yourself with the rest of the suitcase, but your eyes keep wandering to the envelope. Eventually, you give in—how could you not—and stalk out of the closet, grab your phone, and hit Andy’s number before you can change your mind.

He answers before the second ring is finished. “I was waiting to see how long it would take,” he says, not quite soft, but without the shield of irony.

You don’t let him steer any further, not this time. “I found your letter,” you say.

There is a half-beat of stillness, then, “You haven’t opened it yet.” Not a question. A reading of you, as accurate as it is infuriating.

“No.” You squeeze the phone tighter, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I hate you for knowing that.” You mean it to land with more weight, but it sounds raw.

“I figured you’d start with a text,” he replies, “but this is better.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to inhale, to let the silence expand before finally finding the words you want. “I can’t believe you wrote me a letter,” you tell him, and now the irritation has a shape and a target. “You don’t get to be Mr. Darcy. You don’t get to drop all this on a page.”

Andy lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not pretending to be noble or romantic, or whatever you want to call it. I wrote it because I thought… I thought it might be easier for you to hear without having to look at me. Or fight me. Or argue.” A pause. “And maybe as a showing that I heard you and that you can read it in your own time. Or you don’t have to read it at all. It’s your choice.”

You want to hang up, to tell him that nothing on a page can fix the fact that you’re speaking only because of a letter he left for you to find, like some reverse land mine meant to detonate all of your resolve. But you don’t hang up.

“I might read it,” you say. You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to your ear. You don’t look at the envelope. “But since you might be listening, I’ll say this: I don’t care what you wrote. I need you to know it’s not about the letter. It’s about whether I can trust you to give me a real choice. A real relationship. Ever.”

Andy’s breathing is barely audible. “I know,” he says.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you tell him.

“Okay.” The word is a soft exhalation. Then he says your name, and you wait another moment before ending the call. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always answer. No matter what.”

For those of you who were hurt/betrayed/livid after last chapter: I want you to know Andy doesn't get a quick fix overnight. I promise.

For better or for worse, because of how things combusted between them in Italy, our reader is going to be more assertive, more resistant, and hold her boundaries and demands more firmly. She still holds complicated feelings for him, but the feelings won't excuse or circumvent things anymore.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Okay. First, I loved her parents showing up. And her dad knowing things weren’t all peachy. I think she really needed to be comforted in that way and seen by someone other than Andy.

I’m glad Reader is more steely and guarded now, and also that we see some remorse in Andy, but just like Reader, I don’t actually trust him or it or that it all won’t flip on its head eventually. It’s kind of ironic in a really sad way—I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most. He needs a good, long period of groveling 😤

I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most.

This fall out is the jolt he needed to grasp the reality of the situation one hundred percent. I told you it's what shakes things into reality for our Reader, but even more for Andy. He'd been rationalizing things away, trying to make up for things, never fully acknowledging, and now that he went from highest high to lowest low, he's every bit eyes wide open now. And we'll see evidence of that, but obviously with more ground for him to have to make up, if he will be able to at all. (Well, at least mostly eyes wide open - he's still got a lot of shit do deal with in himself.)

But Andy? Even in this chapter... He knows you need space, so he exiles himself to New York. He didn't tell your parents things went to shit, but he did tell them you were coming home but that he'd be going to New York and didn't want you to be alone and who better to see & keep her company. He told his people to fill the home with flowers for your return. He does know you and what you need, he just needs to stop being domineering about it and do it more like this. Self-exile to New York? Not the best way/that's as much for him to skulk away with "a good reason" (business) as it is to give you space. But the other things were good.

And I hate to say it, because it's absolutely NOT to torture you and anyone else reading, but we won't find out what was in that letter in the next chapter. It's actually nothing to do with drawing out the suspense in not knowing but absolutely to give our Reader that time and space to NOT read it/to refuse to read it and narratively to give more distance from the drop of the letter to anything he's said in it potentially giving him any grace. I don't want to give him the shift in our perception of him that soon.

And I love this reader too much to just magic everything to good. They've fought a lot or the small amounts of vulnerability and trust and affection and gaining ground in their relationship, those elements that took them into the honeymoon, and I don't want to cheapen that. Those were earned, and any potential redemption/reconciliation must be, too.

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

TRULY alarming. Initial pounding, yes, startling, but this !!! And I will say that despite a softening of my attitude to Kurt because Curtis, I think this, Kurt's shielding also after the little almost flirty moment of him calling us cute would have had me changing my mind. I was almost considering it last chapter, but these are each significant in their own right.

And specifically with the games?

This is something I'm constantly in awe at with how you're rationing out the narrative of this story with us, and the game scene is a prime example. These segments are succinct, but you're dispensing them with this insane architectural precision! Giving just enough to convey what you want, but allllllways leaving us wanting more in a good way. (Painful, but good.) The fact that they're playing games, and it's been many games - different games, and we gather probably many of each - means that they're enjoying the time doing so. We've seen Kurt be impatient and taciturn, so the fact that he's so willing/at ease playing, and you haven't imbued any impatience here really shows us without telling us where they are, and you're just BLOODY BRILLIANT for it.

I hope you know that.

It's so clear you're being very intentional with this story, and your efforts are appreciated.

Now this whole Kurt and you and Virion moment is verrrrry intriguing. I'm so

jfaoj;oadsj

There's just an intimacy that was developed there between Virion and this human. There are still questions I have about their initial encounters (in a good way) and so much more that I crave for/from them (in a good way).

And I'll just flounce/huff away now, finally experiencing this as everyone else is now. I was too spoiled in getting to read so many chapters in succession without having to wait, and now that is my blessed curse.