My words stutter to a stop when my eyes land on the suitcase and backpack sitting at the bottom of the staircase.
“Bianca?”
My brows knit as I go to walk up the stairs.
“Bianca—”
“Is it true?”
My head whips around at the sound of her voice. Bianca’s sitting in a chair in the living room, so still and quiet that I never even noticed her when I walked in. I frown as I move toward her.
“What’s with the suitcases—”
“Is. It. True.”
Her voice is haggard and cold; soft, like it’s being whispered from a mile away. She stands from her chair, her mouth a line and her hands clenched stiffly at her sides.
I shake my head as I move toward her. “I’m not sure—”
She flinches, backing away and keeping the coffee table between us.
“Were you trying to spy on my family?”
A single tear leaks down her cheeks, her eyes haunted and dark as she stares at me haggardly. I go still, my blood turning to ice.
Fuck. Amaya.
My jaw grinds. “Whatever that woman told you—”
“Don’t lie to me, Kratos.”
She’s not screaming or throwing things. She’s so quiet. Somehow, that makes it even worse.
“Bianca, listen to me,” I growl. “I love you—”
“Please don’t fucking say that right now,” she says coldly, almost mechanically.
“That bitch,” I snarl, “is full of shit.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Yes!”
“Why.”
“Because I’m your fucking husband!”
Her throat bobs as tears fill her eyes. Then she turns away, wiping at them with the back of her hand.
“Did she ask you to spy on my family in exchange for avoiding going to jail on gun charges?”
I remain silent.
“Answer the fucking question,” she hisses, her voice quiet and cold.
“She asked me to, yes,” I rumble darkly.
Bianca physically flinches, like I’ve struck her.
“But I didn’t ever do it—”
“You also didn’t ever tell me she asked you,” Bianca spits. She’s still not looking at me. Still looking away, her body rigid and her voice strained.
Silence chokes the room.
“Why is there a suitcase in the front hallway,” I growl.
Bianca’s throat bobs. “You know why.”
Something vicious twists inside of me.
“Babygirl—”
“No,” she chokes, her voice tight. “Don’t call me that.”
“Bianca—”
“This is done, Kratos.”
