C87 How Could He?

Annabelle’s days at the hospital bled into one another.

The white walls of her mother’s private room seemed to close in on her as time dragged by.

She had chosen not to leave. Not even for a night.

So she stayed with her mother as the older woman slowly regained her strength.

It wasn’t that Mauve asked her to.

It was that Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to go.

The air was thick with antiseptic and the soft hum of hospital machinery.

The room itself was simple but comfortable, with pale beige walls and a view overlooking the hospital courtyard.

A bouquet of fresh lilies sat on the windowsill.

Their sweet fragrance mingled faintly with the sterile scent of the room.

Annabelle sat by her mother’s bed in a worn gray sweater and faded jeans with her hair pulled into a low ponytail.

Mauve lay propped up on pillows, her pale skin and hollow cheeks stark against the crisp white sheets.

Annabelle ran a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on a tangle she hadn’t bothered to fix.

The nurses had been extraordinarily kind, almost unnaturally attentive.

They brought hot tea when Mauve’s voice was raspy.

Extra pillows when she shifted uncomfortably.

Annabelle suspected Dante’s hand in it all.

She thought back to when she had timidly inquired about the mounting hospital bills, only for the billing department to tell her the fees had already been settled.

“Paid in full,” they had simply said, their polite smiles revealing nothing.

She’d felt a flush of gratitude, followed quickly by frustration.

Of course, Dante had done this.

“When had he even managed to speak to them?” she wondered.

She hadn’t seen him since the night he left.

And yet, he hadn’t left entirely.

His men lingered in the background, ever watchful.

They deliver food regularly.

Fragrant, warm meals that Annabelle couldn’t help but savour despite her initial protests.

They brought Cathy to visit, ensuring the little girl made it back safely each time.

And they also brought changes of clothes for her and Mauve too.

Annabelle resented the growing sense of security she felt with Dante’s men around her.

It was infuriating to rely on him, even indirectly, after she’d told him to leave.

But what choice did she have?

No one would dare harm her family while they were here.

And that was enough consolation for her. For now.

On the third morning, Annabelle awoke on the temporary bed they had put up for her in her mother’s room.

It was small compared to what she was beginning to get used to in Dante’s place, but it was a luxury she probably wouldn’t have gotten if he had not given them whatever instructions he did.

She stretched, feeling the stiffness in her back.

Her dreams had been haunted by Dante once again.

It had started the second day after he left, and she had finally resigned herself to the feel of his intense eyes and the warmth of his touch whenever she fell asleep.

She couldn’t shrug off the frustration she felt about having any such thoughts about someone who had probably forgotten about her.

“So much for ‘you belong to me,’” she muttered bitterly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

She stood and crossed to the window, looking out at the courtyard below.

The early morning sun painted the trees in shades of gold and green, but her mind was elsewhere.

She couldn’t shake the memories of their journey to Stoneraine and the attack that had nearly cost them their lives.

A cold dread crept up her spine as a new thought took root.

What if something had happened to Dante?

What if she’d sent him off to his death when he could have stayed here, where it was safe?

Annabelle’s fingers tightened on the windowsill.

She considered calling Angelo, hoping for answers, but his number didn’t go through.

Her anxiety only deepened.

Finally, she swallowed her pride and reached for the number Dante’s men had given her.

Before she could dial, her phone buzzed.

She was surprised when Antonia’s name flashed across the screen.

She felt a bit of guilt that she had not even given the woman any thought since the last time they parted.

Annabelle hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

“Annabelle!” Antonia’s voice was warm and charming, which reminded Annabelle of Mikhail “I’m so sorry I haven’t called sooner. I just heard you were in Stoneraine.”

Annabelle’s grip on the phone tightened. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice clipped. “My mother’s been ill.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry to hear that.” Antonia’s sympathy sounded genuine, but Annabelle couldn’t shake the unease that always accompanied their conversations.

“She’s doing better now,” Annabelle said, keeping her tone neutral.

“That’s good to hear,” Antonia replied smoothly. “Dante didn’t mention anything about your mother. He’s been… busy.”

Annabelle bit the inside of her cheek, determined not to ask. But Antonia didn’t need prompting.

“He’s been caught up in his own world, you know how he is,” Antonia continued. “Sometimes I wonder if he even notices the people around him. It’s just… business as usual for Dante.”

Annabelle’s heart sank, though she forced herself to sound indifferent. “I see.”

Antonia’s voice softened. “I have something to show you. I wasn’t sure if I should, but I think you deserve to know.”

“What are you talking about?” Annabelle asked, her chest tightening.

“I’ll send it to you now,” Antonia said. “But don’t think too much about it, okay? I just felt you should see it.”

Before Annabelle could respond, the call disconnected. Moments later, her phone buzzed again.

It was a picture message.

She opened it with a sinking feeling.

For a second, she thought she was looking at herself. The woman in the photo had the same delicate features, the same intense gaze.

But her hair was a deep auburn, cascading in soft waves around her shoulders.

And then there was Dante.

His expression in the photo was one Annabelle had never seen before.

It was tender and unguarded.

He was looking at the woman as though she were the center of his universe.

Annabelle’s stomach churned.

The woman wasn’t her.

It was Isabella.

Dante’s dead wife.

Jealousy twisted inside her, sharp and ugly.

She tossed the phone onto the bed as her breath came in shallow bursts.

The room seemed to tilt.

It was as if the walls were pressing in on her.

She crossed to the window again, needing air, needing to escape the image that burned into her mind. But even as she stared out at the courtyard, the jealousy wouldn’t leave her.

How could he look at someone like that?

How could he claim to love her when he clearly hadn’t moved on?

Annabelle closed her eyes, the sunlight warming her face.

She wanted to believe it didn’t matter.

She had nothing to do with him and his past or present.

But the ache in her chest said otherwise.