Chapter Two

I sit across from him, the dinner table unnecessarily long, yet we sit on opposite ends. A rule my husband established very early on.

We would still have meals together, but it often felt like we weren't even in the same room. His focus would be on his phone rather than the meals I'd prepare. Eventually, he stopped eating my meals, preferring those prepared by the private chef, who had essentially become my replacement.

Now seated across from this imposter, who silently watches me take muted sips of soup from across the table, I notice he has not touched his meal. The few glances I've snuck confirm it. He only stares at me, which is almost unsettling.

Lifting the napkin to my lips, I gently wipe away nothing. I've lost my appetite. Yet, I prepare my voice to speak across the distance.

"Are you not hungry?" My voice is a whisper that echoes across. His head shifts slightly, as if trying to catch my words like flowers thrown to his side.

"I am." He shifts, leaning back to unbuckle his cufflinks. With a simple tug, his tie is loosened.

My eyes take him in, drinking in every moment. Then our eyes meet, and I see it—a look of desire that reignites a long-dormant burn within me, causing me to shift slightly.

I lower my gaze back to the soup. 'This is cheating,' I remind myself. 'Cheating is not what we do.'

I hear the scraping of his chair, followed by his measured strides. Whoever this stranger may be, he mimics my husband perfectly. He stands behind my chair, pulling it back, tearing my focus from the uninteresting soup.

I do not cast him another look.

"Juliana," he whispers, sending goosebumps up my spine.

"Giovanni," I reply, my voice pathetic in comparison. What more could I say?

"I am hungry tonight, Juliana," he murmurs, his fingers drumming against the back of my chair. Each tap sends vibrations through me.

"Go eat your soup," I say, as if trying to convince a toddler.

"Not for soup," he responds, his whisper tickling my ear. His hand snakes up to my shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze before moving to my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his grey eyes. Despite myself, my heart betrays me once I look into those eyes. It skips a beat, many beats.

"You can call the chef. She always seems to know how to sate your cravings," I whisper. Bitterness swirled within my stomach, though I remained stoic. 

He chuckles, a rumble like thunder from within his chest, as if he can hear my inner betrayal.

"You are jealous," he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he moves to stand in front of me.

"You are my husband," 'liar' I retort simply.

"You are hungry too," he whispers, leaning in close, his breath mingling with mine.

I lick my lips, knowing well the years I've gone without. "You have starved me before," I say, my eyes shifting from his lips to his eyes. Starved both literally and figuratively. His desire for a much slimmer built, a projection of the body type his mistress possessed became my fitness goal. Sexually, well the bedroom remained as dry as Graham crackers. "So I'm used to this."

He stills, and looks at me. In turn, I search for any indication that this might be a dream, a joke, a pretense.

But it's all real, though I know it is not him. It is not my husband.

"I'm sorry," he whispers—words I never thought I'd hear but dreamt so many times I'd be told—before leaning in to kiss my forehead.

I close my eyes as his lips brush my forehead, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down my spine. It's a tenderness I haven't felt in years, and for a moment, I let myself believe it could be real. That this stranger is actually him and that he means it. But reality crashes back in like a wave, bringing with it the bitter truth that this man is not my husband.

Because my husband does not love me and never will.

I blame myself for that because, in a way. I killed him...quite literally.