Chapter Forty-Four: The Broken Glass
The silence in the wake of Damien's departure was heavier than before. It wasn't just quiet; it was a vacuum, sucking the air and warmth from the elegant space. I stood at my desk, my hands flat on the cool oak, grounding myself.
The intercom on my desk buzzed, a sharp, impersonal sound that made me flinch.
His voice, devoid of any trace of the confrontation, was clipped. "Miss Rossi. The conference room is a mess. See to it. I have investors arriving in forty minutes."
No mention of the blood—his blood—on the floor. No acknowledgment of the overturned furniture. Just a mess to be cleaned. A task for the hired help.
"Yes, Mr. Madden."
My voice was a ghost of itself. I gathered a roll of paper towels, glass cleaner, and a small trash bag from the supply closet. The tools of a janitor.
The conference room was a crime scene of our shattered past. A fine spray of blood marred the glass wall where Damien had pinned him. The heavy chair lay on its side. And in the center of the polished table, like a grotesque centerpiece, was the shattered remains of a heavy crystal water pitcher. It must have been knocked over during the scuffle. Shards glittered like malevolent diamonds across the dark wood and the cream-colored carpet.
I set my supplies down and righted the chair, the weight of it a dull thud in the quiet. Then I got on my knees. The carpet was plush, trapping the tiniest fragments. I picked up the large pieces first, my movements mechanical. Each shard was cold and sharp.
You're so careless, my little wife.
Let me see. It's just a scratch, but it could get infected. Come here.
The memory was a scent—rose petals and his worried cologne. A summer day in the Madden garden, a thorn, a drop of blood, and his exaggerated panic as he'd fussed over a bandage, scolding me with kisses on my fingertips.
My vision blurred. A hot tear traced a path down my cheek and splashed onto the back of my hand as I reached for a particularly jagged piece. I didn't see the almost invisible sliver embedded in the carpet fringe. It sank deep into the pad of my index finger.
I gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was more shock than pain. A bright, perfect bead of blood welled up instantly. I pulled my hand back, staring at the red droplet.
Silence from the office. No door flying open. No frantic footsteps. No low voice murmuring curses as he searched for a first aid kit.
Just the hum of the building's ventilation and the pounding of my own heart.
The pain was clean, clarifying. It burned away the tears, replacing them with a cold, searing anger. He was in there, behind that door, likely reviewing contracts or speaking in cold French on the phone, while my blood, the blood he once cherished, dripped onto the carpet his investors would soon walk on.
I looked at the glittering field of glass. A fury, black and hot, rose in my throat. My wounded hand clenched into a fist around the jagged shard I still held. The edges bit deeper, a new, sharper pain radiating through my palm. I didn't let go. I welcomed it. The physical agony was a truth, a rebellion against the emotional void he'd become.
Finally, I dropped the glass into the bag with a soft, final rattle. I finished the job with meticulous, furious care, using damp paper towels to wipe every speck of blood—his and mine—from the wall and table. I vacuumed the carpet twice, the roar of the machine drowning out the silence.
When the room was restored to its pristine, soulless state, I looked at my hands. My right index finger was still oozing. A deeper, angrier cut from my frantic grip marred my left palm. They throbbed in unison.
For the sake of my kids, I have to survive everything.
The thought was an anchor. I couldn't get an infection. I couldn't be weak. I had Arian and Amirah waiting for me, their world depending on my strength.
Gathering the trash bag and cleaning supplies, I walked out, past my desk, past his closed door, and down the hall to the executive washroom. Inside, there was a small, well-stocked first aid cabinet. I ran my wounds under cold water, watching the water swirl pink down the pristine sink. The sting was fierce.
I found antiseptic wipes, the smell harsh and medicinal. I dabbed at the cuts, my jaw tight against the burn. My reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes too bright, but dry. The woman looking back was not the girl who cried over rose thorns. She was someone harder. Someone who bandaged her own wounds.
With clumsy fingers, I wrapped my finger in a precise spiral of gauze. I placed a pad over the cut on my palm and secured it with medical tape. The bandages were stark white against my skin, a badge of a battle fought and tended alone.
I took a deep breath, smoothed my hair, and walked back to my desk. I disposed of the evidence—the bloody paper towels in the sealed bag, the cleaning supplies back in their closet.
The intercom buzzed again. My bandaged hand hovered over it for a second before I pressed the button.
"Yes, Mr. Madden?"
"The Dubai file. I need the projected quarterly figures on my desk in five minutes."
"Right away, sir."
My voice didn't tremble. My hands, though wrapped, flew over the keyboard. The keys were harder to press, the mouse awkward to maneuver, but I managed. I pulled up the document, ran a final check, and printed it.
I stood, the file in my hands. I walked to his door, knocked once—a firm, professional sound—and entered.
He was at his desk, his back to the door, looking at his city. He didn't turn.
I placed the file directly in the center of his blotter, within his line of sight. As I did, my bandaged left hand, palm up, passed over the dark leather.
He didn't look at the file. His gaze dropped, just for a fraction of a second, to the white gauze stark against my skin. There was no reaction. No flicker of concern, no question. His eyes, cold and indifferent, simply tracked back to the window.
"That will be all, Miss Rossi."
I turned and left, closing the door softly behind me.
Back at my desk, I looked at my bandaged hands. They ached. But the work was waiting. The emails piled up. The schedule needed managing.
He didn't care. He truly, absolutely, did not care.
And that was fine.
Because I did. I cared for the two hearts beating because of the love that man had once possessed. I cared enough to clean up the mess, to bandage the wounds, and to sit back down at my desk.
I was Arisha Rossi. Widow. Mother. Survivor.
And I was just getting started.