No. That wasn’t a request. It was an order. One that didn’t need my agreement.
We never shared a room like real spouses in the mafia world do. He never wanted that. He once told me we could use my room if I ever wanted him as a husband, but never his. He said he didn’t want his space “contaminated” with anything intimate.
But he didn’t know I already knew the truth.
He brought Dahlia to his room every time I returned late from a Commission meeting. Or when I was asleep, too tired to hear their whispers and footsteps.
“It’s only for a week, Valentine. You’ll get your room back when—”
“Fine. She can have it,” I cut him off with a nod. I turned away and continued packing.
“O…kay?” Reynold echoed, thrown off.
I shot him a cold glance. He expected me to fight for it the way I used to. He expected tears, begging, anger. But there was none of that left in me.
Why fight for something that was never mine?
“I’m giving it to her. Like you asked,” I said calmly.
Dahlia squealed in triumph. “See, love? My sister always understands.”
Reynold didn’t look pleased. For a second, I thought my indifference unsettled him. But instead of checking on me, he walked off, pride straightened on his shoulders.