Alessio (12)
1291 Words
Father’s study feels small even though it's almost the same size as his main office.
I stand in front of his desk, hands in my pockets, staring at the carpet because if I look at him too long, I’ll feel like I’m twelve again.
“You embarrassed her.” His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
I inhale slowly. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“And yet,” he says, folding his hands together, “that is exactly what you did.”
Enzo shifts in the armchair to my left. Andros is leaning against the bookshelf behind me. I can feel both of them watching.
“I didn’t mean to lash out in front of her,” I say. “I just—”
“Just what?” Father presses.
I hesitate. I don’t like explaining myself. Especially not about something I barely understand myself.
“She complicates things,” I say finally. “My schedule. My work. My space.”
“She is your wife.”
“She is a responsibility,” I correct before I can stop myself.
The temperature in the room drops.
Father leans back slowly in his chair. “Is that how you see her?”
I exhale through my nose. “I didn’t want this marriage.”
“And you think she did?”
For a second, the image of her at the table flashes in my mind. Her hand shaking. The fork clattering. Her eyes fixed on the plate like she was trying to vanish into it.
“I don’t want to be inconvenienced,” I say, more quietly now. “I’ve built my life a certain way. I know how it works. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to factor someone else into every decision.”
Father studies me. “So your solution is to leave her here.”
“She would be safe,” I say immediately. “Taken care of. She wouldn’t lack anything.”
“But she would lack you.”
I look away.
That’s the point.
“I don’t know how to communicate with her,” I admit, irritation creeping back in.
Andros snorts lightly. “You know sign language better than both of us.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” Enzo asks.
I run a hand through my hair. “The point is that the moment she’s beside me, everything changes. Meetings. Travel. Public appearances. Do I take her? Do I leave her? Do I explain? Do I defend? Do I—”
“You adjust,” Father says calmly.
I laugh under my breath. “That’s easy to say.”
“Marriage is adjustment.”
“I will adjust for the right person. She isn't the right person.”
Father’s gaze hardens. “You agreed to it.”
Because he asked.
Because it was strategic.
Because I thought I could manage it.
I didn’t think it would feel like this.
“She is not your enemy.”
“I know that.”
“Then stop behaving as though she is invading your territory.”
The word hits too close to what I was already thinking.
Andros pushes off the shelf. “Look,” he says, more practical than emotional. “If you’re worried about being suffocated, then don’t make her orbit you. Give her something. Something in the foundation. Something that keeps her occupied.”
“So she doesn’t inconvenience me?” I ask dryly.
“So she builds a life too,” he shoots back. “She’s eighteen, Alessio.”
I stiffen. “Eighteen?”
Enzo nods. “Yeah. We asked.”
Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.
Silence stretches.
Father removes his glasses and sets them down.
“She returns to the city with you tomorrow,” he says, with a tone of finality.
I nod once.
There’s no arguing that tone.
“And you,” he continues, “will not treat her as a burden.”
I don’t respond.
Because the truth is—I don’t think she’s a burden.
I just don’t know where to put her in my life.
The meeting dissolves after that.
The hallway to my room feels longer than usual.
I hope she’s asleep.
If she’s asleep, I won’t have to figure out how to speak to her. How to stand near her without feeling like I’m performing something I don’t understand.
I push the door open.
And stop.
I can't mistake the scent of caramel or vanilla.
My mind blanks. My room never smells like this. It smells like incense, cedar and clean linen.
Now it smells like sugar.
Like comfort.
Like someone else.
This is not coexistence.
This is intrusion.
I step inside slowly.
The bed is made.
The desk is clear.
The bathroom door is open.
I walk toward it.
The marble is dry. The glass is spotless. The counters are wiped.
If not for the scent clinging to everything, I wouldn’t even know someone had showered here.
Did she clean it?
Why would she—
I step back into the bedroom.
Where is she?
She doesn’t wander. I’ve already noticed that. She moves like she’s afraid to take up space.
I circle the bed.
And freeze.
She’s asleep on the floor, curled into herself.
My mouth opens.
Closes.
What the hell is she doing?
There’s a California king-sized bed right there.
There’s a couch.
Don’t tell me she sleeps like this by choice.
“Ebony.”
She doesn’t stir.
I move closer and crouch slightly. “Ebony.”
Her eyes snap open instantly.
She jerks upright so fast I pull my head back on instinct.
She kneels immediately, head bowed respectfully.
What is with the constant bowing?
“Get up,” I say.
She stands at once.
“Why were you on the floor?”
She hesitates.
“Ebony.” My patience thins. “Why were you on the floor?”
Her hands rise slowly. "I didn’t want to stay on the bed."
I frown. “Why?”
She looks confused.
“Why didn’t you want the bed?”
Her hands pause. "You understand me?"
I nod once. “Yes.”
Her fingers move again. "You did not give me permission to stay on the bed."
I blink.
“I don’t need to give you permission to sleep.”
Her hands tremble slightly, but she continues. "You are uncomfortable with my presence."
The bluntness of it makes me inhale sharply.
“Yes,” I admit. “I am. But I’ll adjust. I’m not going to have you punish yourself because I’m struggling.”
Her brows pull together, "Are you sure?"
“Yes.”
I gesture toward the mattress. “Get on the bed.”
She doesn’t argue. She climbs onto it quickly and curls up on top of the comforter, turning her back to me like she’s bracing for impact.
She’s so thin.
I notice it now.
Her shoulders are sharp. Her arms narrow.
Her family is rich, so why does she look like she’s been rationed?
My eyes drop to her left hand.
The wedding ring glints softly under the light.
It looks almost too big on her finger.
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest.
None of this is her fault.
Not the marriage.
Not my frustration.
Not my resistance.
I turn on the air conditioner.
The vanilla and caramel swirl faintly in the cooler air.
My room doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary.
Then I walk out.
Toward the home theatre.
Toward noise.
Because if I stay in that room any longer, I might have to confront the fact that I don’t dislike her.
I dislike how easily she unsettles me.
- Writer
