Outside the holding cell, I overheard him laughing with a friend, still half-drunk and unaware I was there.
His friend joked, "If you like her that much, just keep her on the side.
Adriana's obsessed with you. Even if it blows up, she wouldn't dare leave."
Dante let out a helpless chuckle. "She's different," he said. "She's not like Adriana… not that low.
She didn't throw herself at me." He continued, "She has nothing to do with me on paper. I couldn't make her look cheap."
So that's what he thought of me.
That I was cheap. From eighteen to twenty-eight, ten years of my life, I had lived as his wife, his woman.
But in his eyes, I had always been the desperate girl who threw herself into his bed.
A cold draft swept through the hallway outside the precinct, curling around my ankles and slipping beneath my coat like icy fingers.
I had been trembling before, but now the chill seemed to sink straight into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. My hands, already cold, felt numb as I clenched them at my sides.