#Chapter 9 - Who Is Marco?

Aldo I couldn’t look away from her long, graceful fingers on the needle. My blood stained their tips red, but she didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch away. Didn’t so much as ask for gloves. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. My Layla. The words made their way into my mind without my beckoning. Because it was true—she was every bit the woman I’d fallen in love with, married, called mine. She was every bit that woman, and so much more. The years had only made her more beautiful. More independent. More alive. Stronger, surer, fiercer. My Layla. Always. Was it truly any surprise Carlo had misunderstood our relationship, sent her to my room? I could lie with words, but not in the way I looked at her. Not in my memory. In that moment, eight years ago, when I’d stood beside our mantle, met her blue eyes, and held out the divorce paperwork for her to sign, something inside me had broken. Died, even. Something I could never get back. She was my eternal regret. And yet, here she was