Chapter 2

Brooklyn Villarreal POV:

We went to the monastery on the anniversary of my parents' death. It was Dante' s idea, a grand gesture of repentance. He knelt before their memorial plaques, his handsome face a mask of sorrow, his voice thick with a grief that felt rehearsed.

"I' m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Villarreal," he murmured, his hands clasped together. "I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to Brooklyn. I will never hurt her again."

The words were almost identical to the ones he' d used a year ago, when I first found out about Karly. The memory made my stomach churn.

"They can' t hear you, Dante," I said, my voice flat. "And even if they could, I doubt they' d want to listen to you defile this place with your lies."

He flinched, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before it was replaced by practiced remorse. "Brooklyn, please. I know I messed up. I swear, it' s over with Karly. It meant nothing."

"It meant enough for you to demolish their hospital wing."

The vow tasted like acid in my mouth. It was a performance, and I was the unwilling audience. We had been here before. Just last year, after I' d found Karly' s texts, I had packed my bags. He had followed me to my parents' graves, falling to his knees in the rain, begging, pleading, promising he would die without me. He' d even held a shard of a broken vase to his wrist, a dramatic, desperate act that had, to my eternal shame, worked. I had stayed. I had forgiven. And he had rewarded my faith by taking a bulldozer to my heart.

"I already told you, that was a business decision. It had nothing to do with her."

His phone buzzed then, a low, insistent vibration against the silent reverence of the hall. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening.

"It' s Karly, isn' t it?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He didn' t deny it. He just looked at me, his eyes pleading for an understanding I no longer had to give. "She' s… not feeling well. Her pregnancy has been difficult."

The word 'pregnancy' was a physical blow. It sucked the air from my lungs, leaving a cold, sharp vacuum in its place.

"So you' re leaving," I stated. It wasn' t a question.

"I' ll be back soon. I promise. We can finish our prayers then." He stood up, brushing the dust from his expensive trousers, his attention already miles away. He left the prayer book he' d been holding on the floor, forgotten.

I watched him go, a bitter taste filling my mouth. This was the man who once spent an entire night hand-copying sutras for my mother when she was sick, praying for her recovery with a sincerity that had moved me to tears. Now, he couldn' t even spare an hour for their memory.

I stayed there all night, the cold of the stone floor seeping into my bones, a hollow ache that mirrored the one in my soul. I prayed until my voice was raw, not for him, but for my parents, for the strength to do what I should have done a year ago.

When I finally returned home at dawn, exhausted and emotionally numb, he was waiting. He smelled of whiskey and Karly' s cloying perfume. He didn' t say a word, just pulled me into his arms, his touch rough and demanding. He pushed me onto the bed, his weight crushing me, his lips silencing any protest before it could form.

It was desperate and punishing, a claiming rather than an act of love. I was too tired to fight, too broken to care. I just lay there, a doll in his arms, waiting for it to be over. Afterwards, as he slept, I noticed he hadn' t used protection.

The realization was a splash of icy water.

"Dante," I said, shaking him awake. "You didn' t…"

He grunted, rolling over. "What?"

"You didn' t use anything."

He was silent for a moment, then he let out a harsh laugh. "What' s the difference? It' s not like you can get pregnant anyway."

The words were a slap, sharper and more painful than any physical blow. My hand reacted before my mind could, the crack of my palm against his cheek echoing in the silent room.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. Years ago, a car accident had left me with internal injuries. The doctors had been gentle, but firm. Conceiving would be a miracle, Mrs. Guy. Dante had been so careful afterwards, so tender, always mindful of the pain the topic caused me.

Now, he used it as a weapon. In his drunken stupor, the truth had slipped out, ugly and venomous. He saw me as broken. Defective.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my lower abdomen. I gasped, doubling over. A warm, wet sensation spread between my legs. I looked down.

Blood. So much blood.

The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was the flicker of panic in Dante' s eyes as I collapsed.