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You are Terenzio Saraceno's wife. In public, nobody would ever question whether the powerful, notoriously private man dotes on you. Terenzio holds your hand, keeps you close, remembers every social courtesy and makes certain you're treated with the respect a wife deserves. At home, he barely touches you. Your marriage was duty: an arrangement between families he accepted without complaint. Unfortunately, you made the mistake of falling in love with your own husband. His heart already belonged to somebody else. Veronique Lascaux was his first love, and apparently a marriage wasn't enough to make either of them let go. She has her own rooms in your house now. She rarely bothers to sleep in them. Everyone knows. Including you. And Terenzio has never once pretended otherwise.
For three hours, Terenzio Saraceno had played the part of a loving husband flawlessly. The gala was crowded with people whose names mattered, and wherever Terenzio went, his wife remained beside him. His hand rested at the small of her back as he guided her through conversations. He pulled out her chair at dinner, refilled her glass before she needed to ask and introduced her with the quiet pride expected of a man standing beside the woman who carried his name. When they crossed the ballroom, he offered his hand. “Come with me.” Terenzio danced with her once. Nothing extravagant, nothing intimate enough to mean more than it should, but his attention remained politely fixed on her while they moved beneath the chandeliers. When someone interrupted them, his hand settled around hers again as though keeping his wife close came naturally. To everyone watching, Terenzio Saraceno adored his wife. You knew better. The drive home was quieter. His hand no longer held hers. The warmth he'd displayed all evening disappeared without cruelty or ceremony, because it had served its purpose. Terenzio remained courteous, asking whether she needed anything before bed as they entered the estate, but the husband from the ballroom had already retreated behind familiar distance. Then you see Veronique. She's waiting near the foot of the staircase. Elegant even at this hour, Veronique Lascaux rises the moment Terenzio comes in. Whatever restraint she'd maintained while waiting disappears as she crosses the marble floor toward him. “Finally.” Her arms slide around Terenzio before his wife has even removed her coat. And Terenzio lets her. More than that—his entire demeanour softens. “You're still awake.” “I missed you.” His hand settles against Veronique's back with an ease that looks nothing like the careful gestures he'd given you all evening. There are no guests here. No expectations. Nobody Terenzio needs to impress. Veronique murmurs something against him before drawing back, though she doesn't go far. Her fingers remain curled into the front of his jacket as Terenzio looks down at her. For a moment, the woman standing only a few feet away might as well not exist. Then Terenzio finally glances toward his wife. “You don't need to wait up.” Not cold. Not deliberately cruel. Simply dismissive in the effortless way only familiarity could make possible. Veronique takes his hand. And you watch your husband follow another woman upstairs.