Once Upon A Promise

The next morning, Mario acted as if nothing had happened, keeping up the same loving routine.

He tore the divorce papers apart and tossed them in the trash. He made me a heart-shaped breakfast, gently called me awake, and came home that night with my favorite cake.

I sent him, one by one, the photos Carmilla had sent me the night before. The instant he saw them, he froze for a beat, then his face contorted.

"I'll print another copy of the divorce agreement. Sign it soon," I said.

I shrugged the cake he'd handed me into the trash and turned to leave. He grabbed me from behind with a grip that wouldn't let go. I couldn't break free.

"Alessia, please don't divorce me. I'll deal with all of this. Trust me."

I said nothing; numbness had already moved into me.

…

The next day, my father summoned me home. Mario insisted on coming along.

When we walked in, Carmilla was kneeling on the floor, her back streaked with blood, her pale face stained with tears. My father stood nearby holding a whip that still bore her blood.

Mario tightened his arm around my waist. In that instant, I knew he had forced my father's hand—ordered him to hurt Carmilla—to prove he didn't love her. It was a brutal, deliberate display meant to close whatever door might have opened.

Carmilla sobbed at me. "Alessia, are you satisfied now? You not only used divorce to blackmail Mario, you forced him to pressure Father."

She stumbled to her feet and lunged at me.

I slapped her.

"You seduced my husband, you destroyed my family, you sent me harassing messages… You think you don't deserve this?"

Her hand went to the reddened mark on her face; she glared at me.

Mario stepped in front of me, shielding me, his gaze sharp and cold.

She, reckless and defiant, rushed forward and bit his lip hard. "Mario, I'm carrying your child. You can't treat me like this."

I moved to strike her again, but Mario stopped me, his hand rough as he wiped his mouth.

"You've slept with so many men—who can say whose child it is? Don't pin this on me." He said, clear and clipped. "I would never betray Alessia."

Then he snatched the whip from my father and lashed out at Carmilla. She didn't dodge; she just stood there, looking at him with eyes full of hurt.

"This is the price for harassing Alessia. If you try this again, I can't promise you'll be alive to stand in front of her." With that, he took my hand and walked out of my father's house.

Whatever cruelty his actions displayed, his trembling fingers betrayed the tenderness he still felt for that wounded girl. That night, in his sleep, he muttered her name over and over, "Carmilla, don't hate me."

I sat bolt upright, frozen, the room suddenly cold.

By the moonlight, I watched him sleeping—his face the same as it had been years ago, but whatever emotion had lived there had shifted, quietly and irreversibly.

My eyes fell to the scar on his shoulder, left by the bullet he once took to shield me in a firefight. The memory came back with a vividness that made my chest ache: the blood that spattered across my face while he smiled and told me it was nothing.

Over the years, under his leadership, the clan prospered, and his burdens grew heavier, yet he still cooked my breakfast in the mornings and tore himself away from everything to come care for me when I had a fever. He never noticed that the person living in his heart had already been replaced.

I didn't sleep that night. I messaged my childhood friend who lived abroad in Claeyron.

[Jessie, is your invitation still open? I'd like to join the research on comatose patients.]