Dropping my gaze to my plate, I pick up my fork and spear a piece of fish, trying to ignore my growing queasiness. My stomach churns with every bite, but I persist until I finish nearly half of my portion. Julian, in the meantime, polishes off everything on his plate, his appetite obviously unaffected by our argument.

“Dessert? Tea? Coffee?” Ana asks when she comes back to clear off our plates, and I mutely shake my head, not wanting to prolong the ordeal of this tense meal.

“I’ll pass too, thanks, Ana,” Julian says politely. “Everything was wonderful, as usual.”

Ana beams at him, clearly pleased. I’ve noticed that Julian has made it a point to praise her more often since our return—that in general, his manner toward her is slightly warmer these days. I don’t know what caused the change, but I know Ana appreciates it. Rosa told me the housekeeper has been all but dancing on air in recent weeks.

As Ana begins clearing off the table, Julian gets up and walks around to offer me his arm. I loop my hand through the crook of his elbow, and we head upstairs in silence. As we walk, my heart starts beating faster and my queasiness intensifies.

Tonight’s argument only confirms what I have known for a while: Julian is never going to see reason on the issue of Peter’s list. If I’m to keep my promise, I will have to take matters into my own hands and brave the consequences of my husband’s displeasure.

Even if the thought of that literally makes me sick.

5

Julian

As soon we enter the bedroom, Nora excuses herself to freshen up.

She disappears into the bathroom, and I undress, enjoying the freedom of having both arms unencumbered by a cast. My left shoulder still aches during exercise, but I’m regaining my strength and range of motion. Even the loss of my eye doesn’t bother me that much; the headaches and eye strain are lessening by the day, and I’ve learned to compensate for the blind spot to my left by turning my head more frequently.

All in all, I’m pretty much back to normal—but I can’t say the same about Nora.

Every time I wake up to her screams, every time she starts hyperventilating out of nowhere, a toxic mixture of rage and guilt blankets my chest. I’ve never been prone to dwelling on the past, but I can’t help wishing that I could somehow rewind the clock, undo the unintended consequences of my fucked-up choices.

That I could have Nora—my Nora—back.

She slips out of the bathroom a few minutes later, already showered and wearing a white fleece robe. Her smooth skin is glowing from the hot water, and her long, dark hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head, exposing her slender neck.

A neck that’s beginning to look far too delicate, almost frail from her weight loss.

“Come here, baby,” I murmur, patting the bed next to me. I had contemplated punishing her for her outburst at dinner, but all I want to do now is hold her. Well, fuck her and hold her, but the fucking can wait.