I straighten my neck and open my eyes.

The sight of her wearing the uniform of mourning Colonia women shatters the memories of her in jeans, watching Black Widow with admiration. Now, the only thing she shares with the superhero is the color. Head-to-toe black, with her face covered by a black lace veil. Her hair in a single braid rips apart the memory of the way it fell over her shoulders when she came out of the shower.

This is the old Sarah, dressed to signal adherence, docility, and duty.

“They have you in mourning,” I say.

“You murdered my father.” She spits the truth. Even through the veil, her eyes are fire and her jaw is set firm. She has not surrendered to them… or has she withdrawn her surrender to me? Her words imply the latter. She hates me for all the right reasons. I deserve as much.

“I did. I gutted him while he was taking a shit and I don’t regret it. Not with you looking so good in black. Take off that veil so I can see your face.”

Our eyes have been locked on opposite sides of the black lace, and they stay that way for long enough for me to read her. She knows we’re in danger. She knows she has to stay in control. The list of what she doesn’t know is so long it disappears into the horizon.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

I hold up my right hand. “These scars say I can. Now do it, or I’ll have your brother put you back in your place with a paddle.”

It’s a real threat. A husband can ask a male family member to punish his wife. It’s also a probing question about what’s going on outside this cell. Where is Massimo? Who’s in charge?

But she doesn’t take the bait by confirming or denying what her brother can do.

“I know my place.”

That’s a lie. She never knew her place.

She pulls her veil over her head, revealing her face in all its splendor. Her eyes are cupped with dark circles and ringed in red. Her skin is sallow, and her cheekbones are over-defined. But her lips are full, and her lashes are long and dark. Her chin points upward, and her throat is fearlessly exposed.

She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

She’s still the woman I came to love.

Something is off, but a lot has happened between her reasons to hate me and her reasons for wearing a black veil. I took her on a journey, and she pulled me to the destination.

“You’re my wife.”

“I am still.” Her hands—without the diamond I put there—fold in front of her. She rocks ever so slightly on the balls of her feet. A posture of attack. My reflection in the glass—shirtless, arms covered in history—is a wish she can wave away.

Her black dress is a pillar of smoke on the horizon, but that’s an illusion. I thought I was the fire under her and she was the smoke I created. But I do not have my own light. I do not burn on my own. I need her to exist.