Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE ROOM
He planted his feet firmly on the woven rug.
His chest expanded, stretching the pristine white cotton of his shirt.
He bent forward at the waist, leaning his upper body across the invisible boundary between them.
His dark eyes narrowed into thin, dangerous slits.
The golden light of the chandelier caught the furious, wet shine of his pupils.
"You got between Valentina and me!"
His voice cracked like a whip across the dining room table.
The volume wasn't a shout, but the raw, unhinged aggression behind the syllables tore through the polite atmosphere.
A heavy crystal wine glass tipped over at the far end of the table.
Dark red wine spilled across the crisp white linen tablecloth.
It pooled rapidly, staining the fabric like a spreading wound.
No one moved to clean it up.
The older gentleman sitting nearest to the spill simply stared down at his own trembling hands.
The younger woman across from him swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly.
They were an audience held hostage by his grief.
The name hung in the air.
Valentina.
It was a ghost that haunted every corner of the massive villa.
It was in the scent of the lilies by the staircase, in the cold marble of the foyer, in the red swelling on her cheek.
He breathed heavily through his nose.
His nostrils flared.
The immaculate knot of his white tie rested exactly at the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his ragged breaths.
He glared at her, demanding a reaction.
He wanted her to crumble.
He wanted the tears to spill over her dark eyelashes.
He wanted her to apologize for taking up space in a world built for a ghost.
She did not blink.
Her perfectly styled black hair remained motionless against her scalp.
The gold hoop earring stopped swaying.
She looked at the angry, middle-aged man standing before her.
She looked past the expensive suit, past the manicured beard, past the terrifying wealth.
May you like
She saw a man drowning in a puddle of his own making.
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