NINETY-EIGHT.

ALESSANDRO, AKA DON VALENTINO.

Reaching across the bed with my arm in the hopes to entice Ivy back into my embrace once more, a mischievous smirk plays on the corner of my mouth.

I have not slept this well since she left. But having her back in my bed and sharing my hidden truths, has taken some of the weight that has been weighing me down for years off my shoulders.

But what makes me weak, is that Ivy didn’t judge me.

I am capable of dealing with glances of distaste and repulsiveness.

These sentiments are irrelevant to a man like me.

A man accustomed to the disdainful, frigid glances of individuals who mean nothing to me. It acts as a buffer between my mind and my emotions.

It is the pity that would have been most painful. The sensitivity with which her watery hazel eyes glance at me will be my undoing.

She is my vulnerability, my everything, and I wish I could figure out how to stop wounding her fragile heart.

When I extend my hand further across the bed, all that remains