His tone was warm and affectionate and for a fleeting moment, I almost believed him. Almost. But as I stared at him, his words from his deathbed echoed mercilessly in my mind. The tattoo wasn't for me—it was for the ghost of a woman he couldn't forget.
Jonah was radiant that day, his dark hair neatly combed and his tailored suit fitting him perfectly. He was the picture of a perfect husband, the very image of the man I had adored. Yet now, I could only feel a bitter sense of irony.
This time, I wouldn't let his grand gestures blind me.
"Jonah," I began, my voice calm yet distant, "can I ask you something? Why do you never call me Sasha? Everyone else does. My family, my friends… yet, you've always called me Rosa."
The question made him falter. For the first time that evening, his confident demeanor cracked. His brows knitted together in confusion and he tilted his head slightly, as if buying himself time to think. "Why are you asking this out of the blue?"
I forced a small smile. "Don't you think Sasha sounds closer, more intimate than Rosa?"