Since I Stopped Loving You

Chapter 3: The Untamed Beast

The limestone foyer was wide enough to park a car, but when Damian stepped inside, he seemed to take up all the air between the floor and the vaulted ceiling. He didn't look at the gray suitcase tucked discreetly behind Juanita’s right heel. His focus was entirely on the double mahogany doors behind him, which he held open with one stiff forearm.

Outside, the late afternoon sky had turned the color of bruised iron. A sudden, violent downpour slammed against the glass panes of the entryway, the heavy drops sounding like gravel thrown against stone.

"The vet said his lungs are clear, but he shouldn't be out in this rain," Damian said. His voice was slightly strained from the effort of carrying a large white Samoyed across the wet driveway.

Snowball’s paws hit the polished marble with a dull, wet slap. The dog was shivering, his thick white coat damp and smelling of wet wool and cedar bedding. He didn't shake himself out or bound toward the kitchen as he usually did. Instead, he stayed close to Damian’s left shin, his dark eyes fixed instantly on Juanita, his tail tucked low between his hocks.

Behind them, Dayana slipped through the closing frame of the door. She wore an oversized beige trench coat that looked identical to one Juanita had discarded two seasons ago, her small leather boots leaving a trail of dark, muddy crescents across the white stone. She was entirely dry, her hair still holding the sharp, artificial wave of a salon blowout.

"It’s absolutely miserable out there," Dayana murmured, her gaze scanning the high walls of the foyer before settling on Juanita with a tiny, tight smile. "Ian insisted we couldn't leave him at the clinic over the weekend. He said the staff doesn't check the grates after five o'clock."

Juanita didn't move from the first step of the staircase. Her hand remained lightly resting on the oak balustrade, her fingers steady against the polished wood. She looked down at the dog, then at the mud tracking across the floor she had spent three hours organizing before her detention.

"The dog's bowls are in the laundry room," Juanita said. Her voice carried no heat, no tremor of surprise. It was the same neutral tone she used when approving corporate expense ledgers. "The towel is behind the door."

Damian let out a short, heavy breath that sounded like a sigh but lacked the emotional weight of one. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, where the rain had darkened his collar. "Dayana’s apartment complex has a strict weight limit on animals. The property manager sent a formal notice while we were at the clinic. I couldn't leave him in the car."

"I didn't ask you to," Juanita said.

"She needs to stay the night, Juanita. The roads near the lower ridge are completely flooded, and her wipers are stripping." Damian looked up the stairs, his eyes shifting from her face to the small suitcase visible through the balusters. His brow twitched, but he didn't address the luggage. Instead, he looked away, as if looking at it would force an explanation he didn't want to hear. "Just until the storm clears tomorrow morning."

Dayana took a step closer to Damian, her shoulder brushing his sleeve with a practiced, casual familiarity that had taken five years to perfect. "I told him I could just check into the downtown Hilton, but he wouldn't hear of it. He keeps saying the family estate is safer during a lightning warning."

Juanita looked at the double doors at the end of the lower hallway. The brass handle of the guest room reflected the dull gray light from the high window. It was the same room where the lock had clicked shut from the outside while she was three months pregnant.

"The guest room at the end of the hall has clean sheets," Juanita said. She stepped down from the first stair, her movements fluid and unhurried. She walked past them without making eye contact, her shoulder clearing Damian’s by three clear inches. "The water heater for that wing takes twenty minutes to cycle. Use the lower dial."

"Juanita," Damian called out, his hand half-raising as if to catch her sleeve as she passed.

The phone in his inner breast pocket vibrated—three short, aggressive bursts that indicated an executive-level emergency page from the overseas logistics terminal. He closed his eyes for a brief second, his fingers dropping back to his side. When he pulled the device out, the blue glow lit the sharp angles of his face, making him look older, more severe.

"It's the Brussels port director," he ground out, looking at the screen rather than either of the women in the room. "The customs clearance for the machinery shipment has been flagged under the new tariff schedule. I need to take this in the study. It’s going to take at least an hour to override the regional block."

"Go ahead," Dayana said softly, her hand lingering on his forearm for a second before he pulled away. "We'll be fine down here. Snowball needs his kibble anyway."

Damian didn't look back as he turned down the eastern corridor toward his private office. The heavy oak door of his study clicked shut with a solid, definitive snap that seemed to seal the rest of the house in an artificial vacuum.

The foyer grew quiet, save for the rhythmic, heavy dripping of the rainwater from Dayana’s trench coat onto the marble.

Snowball stood perfectly still between them, his head low, his ears pinned back against his skull. The dog’s breath was shallow, his black lips pulling back slightly from his teeth in a tense, defensive line.

Dayana didn't move toward the laundry room. She unbuttoned her coat slowly, letting it drape over the antique settee near the door—a piece of furniture Juanita had specifically restored using original nineteenth-century silk. The wet fabric immediately began to darken the delicate embroidery.

"You've gotten very good at the quiet wife routine," Dayana said. Her voice had dropped its sweet, performative cadence, replaced by a dry, thin rattle that sounded much more natural to her. She walked around the dog, her leather boots clicking sharply against the white stone. "Ian used to tell me you screamed every time I called his private line. He said you used to break the crystal in the dining room when he didn't come home for dinner."

Juanita walked over to the small console table by the stairs, picking up a silver tray meant for incoming mail. She began sorting through the utility bills that had accumulated during her week in detention, her fingers steady as she slid a letter opener through the paper seams.

"People change when they realize they're wasting energy," Juanita replied without looking up.

Dayana stopped three feet away, her shadow falling across the mail tray. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around Snowball’s leather collar, her knuckles white as she twisted the strap until the dog gave a low, uncomfortable whine. The animal’s eyes rolled back, showing the whites as he stared at Juanita’s ankles.

"He doesn't love you, you know," Dayana whispered. The words were small, sharp, delivered with the casual cruelty of someone who had never had to work for anything in her life. "He never did. Even when he was lying next to you in that ridiculous custom bed upstairs, he was calling my name in the dark. He told me about it. He said he had to shut his eyes just to touch you."

Juanita turned a page of the electric bill. A small, dry smudge of dust from the paper transfer stuck to her thumb. She wiped it off against her trousers. "I know."

Dayana’s mouth twitched, her smug expression faltering for a fraction of a second at the lack of a reaction. Her fingers tightened further on the dog's collar, pulling the animal's head up until its front paws were nearly off the floor. Snowball’s tail was tucked so tightly it pressed against his belly, his body trembling violently under the tension.

"You think you're so smart because you stayed through the miscarriage," Dayana hissed, her face tightening as she leaned forward. "You thought the guilt would keep him here. But look at him. The second I have a stomachache, he turns his phone off and leaves you to rot in a cell with the street garbage. You're nothing but a temporary lease on a house that belongs to me."

She let go of the collar with a sudden, violent snap. She pointed her index finger straight at Juanita’s right leg.

"Snowball," Dayana commanded, her voice dropping into a sharp, guttural snap. "Get her. Guard."

The dog didn't hesitate. The five years Juanita had spent feeding him, walking him through the morning fog, and wiping his paws after the rain dissolved instantly under the deeper, older imprint of his original owner's voice. The Samoyed lunged forward with a low, ragged snarl, his jaws snapping shut around the meat of Juanita’s right calf.

The teeth tore through the thin cotton of her trousers, sinking deep into the muscle.

Juanita didn't scream. She didn't even draw a sharp breath. Her body went perfectly rigid, her fingers locking onto the edge of the silver mail tray until the metal creaked under her weight. Her face drained of what little color it had left, turning a flat, chalky white in the gray afternoon light, but her eyes stayed wide and unmoving.

She looked down at the dog. Snowball’s jaws were locked, his white fur staining a sudden, bright crimson where his muzzle pressed against her skin.

"Let go," Juanita said softly. She didn't use Dayana’s sharp cadence. She spoke to the dog in the same quiet, monotonous voice she used when she told him to lie down by the hearth. "Let go, Snowball."

The dog’s ears twitched. He stayed locked for three long seconds, his breath hot and wet against her skin, before his jaw slacked. He backed away slowly, his tongue licking at the blood on his lips, his head dropping until his nose nearly touched the bloody scuff marks on the marble.

Dayana let out a high, shaky breath that was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a gasp. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, her shoulders hunched as she looked from the blood on the floor to Juanita’s face. "He was just defending me. You moved too fast. Anyone could see you were being aggressive."

Juanita didn't look at her leg. She could feel the warm, thick fluid running down into her shoe, the small, rhythmic pulsing of the torn tissue beneath her skin, but she kept her eyes fixed steadily on Dayana’s face.

She lifted her left hand and pointed toward the decorative molding where the wall met the high ceiling of the foyer. Hidden within the shadow of an antique plaster rosette was a small, black glass dome no larger than a coat button.

"The security system was updated after the break-in last autumn," Juanita said. Her voice didn't shake. "It runs on a secondary fiber loop connected straight to the corporate server downtown. It records in four-K resolution with omnidirectional audio. It doesn't delete the local buffer unless I enter the master override code from my phone."

Dayana’s face went entirely slack, her skin turning an unpleasant, greenish tint under the hallway lights. She took two steps backward, her heel coming down right in the middle of the wet puddle her coat had made. "You're lying. Ian said the lower cameras were disconnected during the renovation."

"The lower ones were," Juanita said, her fingers neatly stacking the utility bills back into the silver tray. "The ceiling units are on the executive security net. Damian’s father insisted on it when we signed the prenuptial agreement.