When she doesn’t respond, I kick off my shoes and climb onto the middle of the bed, opening the blankets and sliding in behind her. She stiffens at first, but gradually, she melts into me, releasing a painful sigh when I wrap my arm around her waist, and she loses all resistance.

"I can't stand to be apart," I whisper, my lips grazing her ear. "I need you, Ivy. Come back to me, please."

A tear streaks down her cheek, and she shudders, slowly dragging her gaze to mine. "How could I?"

I kiss her jaw and then her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears before I close my eyes and breathe her in, hands clutching her in a silent plea.

"What if I could promise you that everything would be alright?" I choke out. "That this nightmare will all be over soon."

"How, Santiago?" she whispers. "How will this pain ever end?"

"It will end if you can find it in your heart to trust me," I murmur against her lips. "That's all I'm asking. Trust that everything I do is to protect you."

She looks up at me, eyes hard. "I get it now."

"What do you get?"

"How it feels," she answers bitterly. "Why you wanted to kill me to avenge your father's death. I understand that now because I feel it too."

Her words ice over any warmth left between us as my hands fall away from her. Pain splinters inside me at the realization there is no fixing this. It can't be undone. Foolishly, I wanted to believe we could survive this, but now I know that we can't.

She will never forgive me. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

I can see it in her eyes.

I can hear it in her voice.

And nothing has ever felt so final when I drag myself away from her, glancing over my shoulder one last time. She doesn't look at me, and she doesn't look at the gift I left her on the nightstand.

Instead, she closes her eyes and breathes a sigh of relief as I walk out the door.

27

Ivy

I don’t know how much time has passed. Maybe a day or two. I’m not locked in the bedroom, but I don’t leave it by choice. I don’t have anywhere to go. This feeling, this ache, there’s no getting away from it.

My father is dead. Murdered by my husband’s hand.

Two men I love.

Two men I loved.

Why is it always past tense when they’re gone? The love is still here, in the present, alongside the pain.