6
Damian came home late, the scent of Seraphina’s perfume clinging to his clothes. Bruno was already asleep on the sofa.
He saw me and his tone was uncharacteristically soft. ““Seraphina ran into a little trouble at the bar. I had to go sort it out. It was
nothing.“”
I nodded, pretending to believe him. His lies were clumsy, but then, I wasn’t worth the effort of a good one.
“Go give Bruno a bath,” he said, his tone casual, entitled. “He’s exhausted.”
! walked silently to the sofa and gently lifted our son into my arms. I started to unbutton his shirt, but his eyes fluttered open.
Seeing my face, he scowled and shoved my hands away. ““Get away from me! I want Seraphina!“”
I froze. Before I could react, he kicked out, his heel connecting squarely with my bandaged leg, right on top of the fork wounds from
the other day.
A bolt of agony shot up my leg, and my knees buckled.
“Get off me! You’re disgusting!“” he shrieked, his voice filled with a venom that was terrifying in a child so young.
The commotion brought Damian over. ““Bruno,” he said, his voice holding a mild, unconvincing note of reprimand. “”That’s no way to talk to your mother.”
“She’s not my mother!“” Bruno screamed, his face red and tear–streaked. ““Seraphina is my mother!“”
I stumbled back, cradling my throbbing leg.
Damian walked right past me, not even a glance in my direction, as if I were a piece of furniture. He sighed with theatrical wearin- ess, then pulled out his phone and facetimed Seraphina. It was a familiar, practiced motion. Even his “frustration” with his son felt like a performance for my benefit.
“Seraphina, Bruno’s missing you. Can you talk to him for a minute?” His voice was impossibly tender, the voice a man uses for the
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Chapter 1
woman he truly loves.
Her smiling face appeared on the screen. ““Bruno, sweetie, what’s wrong? Do you miss me?““”
Bruno scrambled to the phone, his face a mask of misery, as if my touch had been a violation. ““Seraphina, I miss you! I won a prize at school today and I’m saving it for you! When are you coming over?“”
““I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay, sweetie?“” she cooed. ““You be a good boy.“”
He nodded vigorously, a bright smile finally breaking through his tears.
And me? I got cold silence, or scorn, or violence.
The last flicker of warmth in my heart guttered and died. I turned, walked into my room, and shut the door, blocking out the sound of their happy chatter.
I took out my phone and double–checked the details for my flight, the car service, the flat waiting for me in London. Everything was arranged.
Later that night, in bed, Damian pulled me into his arms, his hold surprisingly tight, almost desperate. ““Bruno’s just a kid,” he mur- mured into my hair. ““He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Don’t be mad.”
I lay rigid in his embrace, the feeling of his skin against mine making my own crawl. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. Listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I silently counted down the hours.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow it would all be over.
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