Open Marriage Closed Heart

Damien rushed to my side.

He saw my tear-filled eyes and the shattered music box on the floor. Pain filled his face. "Bella, what happened? Your hands…"

He reached for me, but I flinched away in disgust.

Just then, Sophia ran in after him.

She threw herself into her mother's arms, crying her eyes out. "Mama, are you okay? It's all my fault, I shouldn't have asked you to help… Miss Isabella, please forgive us, we didn't mean it!"

Elena immediately started her act, looking at me with fake terror. "Damien, you have to talk to Isabella. She was like a madwoman just now, she said she was going to kill us…"

"I just told her not to touch my mother's things!" I pointed at the broken pieces on the floor, my voice ice.

Damien's eyes darted between the crying Sophia and her mother, and me.

His brow furrowed. The pain in his eyes was replaced by impatience and doubt.

"Bella, that's enough." His voice was laced with something I'd never heard before: disappointment. In me.

I stared at the stranger wearing my husband's face. In my home. Calling me the villain for defending my own mother.

It was absurd. It was laughable. It was tragic.

"Damien," I said quietly. "I want a divorce."

The words hit him like a bomb.

His face went white. He grabbed my shoulders. "No! What are you saying? Bella, you can't do this!"

"Why not?" I looked at him, my face a cold mask.

"I love you! I only love you!" he roared, a hint of panic in his voice he didn't even recognize. "Sophia and her mother... they're nothing! Their family cast them out, I was just... helping."

Behind him, Sophia's crying stopped for a second. A flash of hatred crossed her face.

"You see," I said with a mocking smile, "you can't even believe your own lies."

I shook his hands off and walked toward the door without looking back.

"Isabella!"

He started to come after me, but then I heard that sickening voice again.

"Damien, I don't feel well. My heart… it hurts."

Damien's footsteps stopped behind me.

It was clear who he chose.

I walked out of that mausoleum he called a home and went to the only place that made sense: a bar.

The whiskey didn't numb the pain. It sharpened it.

My friend was passed out drunk long ago. I was stumbling to the restroom when I walked straight into a solid chest.

The strong scent of whiskey hit me. I looked up with blurry eyes and saw a face that was a mirror of Damien's, but harder. The eyes were deeper, more dangerous.

The alcohol amplified all my pain and rage.

"Bastard!" I grabbed his tie and slapped him as hard as I could. "Damien Falcone, you're a bastard! You and your whore can go to hell!"

The man's head snapped to the side. He didn't get angry. A dark, amused smile played on his lips.

He caught my wrist, his deep voice a low rumble in my ear. "Look closer. I'm not your husband."

"You're a Falcone," I slurred. "Close enough."

The rest of the night was a blur.

I remember the rich, woody scent of his cologne. I remember his arms were stronger than Damien's.

I remember losing myself completely, pouring out all my pain and rage until there was nothing left.

The next morning, I woke up in a guest room in the main Falcone estate. My head was splitting.

The sunlight was blinding. I shot up, realizing I was naked under the sheets of a strange bed.

And on the other side of the bed lay a man.

He was turned away from me, his profile strong and defined. It was the man from last night.

"Who are you?!" I snatched a sheet and wrapped it around myself.

The man woke up.

He turned over slowly. His deep eyes showed no surprise, only a hint of amusement. "You're awake?"

I didn't think. I scrambled for my clothes scattered on the floor, threw them on, and ran out of the room.

I fled down the stairs like a fugitive.

And in the middle of the grand hall, I ran straight into Damien. He looked like he'd been up all night searching for me, his eyes bloodshot.

He saw me, disheveled and panicked. For a second, hope lit up his face. "Bella, you're back! I…"

His words died in his throat.

Because he saw the man following me slowly down the stairs.

He followed me down the stairs, his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing the angry red marks my nails had left on his neck.

The color drained from Damien's face.

He stared at us, his voice trembling uncontrollably.

"Isabella… why are you with my uncle?"