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I open my mouth to demand more details, but Domenico continues talking. He explains Dad showed up to get the remainder of the money he felt like he was owed. I listen intently as he details their meeting, including the original contract with Paolo, which was only ten years long. Apparently.

“That makes no sense,” I murmur, more to myself than my husband.

I signed the contract as well, and I don’t remember that clause being in there. Domenico’s expression hardens as I tell him just that.

“You didn’t know about that?” When I shake my head, he lets out a low growl. “I’ll call Paolo to confirm that was his agreement.”

“Don’t bother,” I snip. “I don’t care about any of that anymore. I want to know about my mom, Domenico. The rest is just… distracting.”

Something hard flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it. “You already know I took over the expenses,” he says. Each word measured, precise. “I removed your dad’s authority and arranged for you to be placed in charge of her treatment instead. Every decision about Paige goes through you now, Kira. Not him. Not me. You.”

The words hit like stones, one after another, and for a second, I can’t breathe around them. “You gave me control.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Over my own mom. And you didn’t even care enough to tell me I had it.”

Domenico doesn’t apologize. He stands there, solid, unmovable, and the look on his face is the same one he wore in the hospital corridor. Certain. Unwavering.

“I would do it again,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Without hesitation. You told me yourself that your dad was using Paige as leverage. Do you honestly think he would ever stop?”

When did I… oh, right. For a moment, I forgot I had told him all of this when we left the wedding reception and drove to his penthouse.

“You don’t know whether he would or wouldn’t,” I reply.

“Don’t be naïve,” Domenico scoffs. “Men like your dad don’t willingly let go of whatever small power they have, Kira. As his daughter, you should know this.”

He’s right, I know he is. But right now, I’ll die on the hill that he doesn’t know because I refuse to agree with him. My temper won’t allow it.

When I don’t speak, Domenico continues. “So yes, I took his control over Paige away. If you want me to feel bad for that, you’re shit out of luck, baby.”

“Then why not tell me?” I’m pacing now, back and forth in front of the windows where the city sprawls below us. “Why let me sit in that hospital for weeks thinking I had no say? Why let me believe my dad was still calling the shots when you’d already taken them away?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Just long enough for me to feel the weight of it.

“I should have told you,” he says. “That part, I’ll admit. I should have told you.”

It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. The admission lands like a match on gasoline, and everything I’ve been holding back since yesterday—since the seizure, since the hospital, since Dr. Morgan’s cold certainty and the forms with my dad’s signature—all of it ignites at once.

“Of course you should have told me.” My voice is rising again, climbing toward something I can’t control. “There are so many things you should have told me, Domenico.”

“Like what?”

“Like… like when you’d beaten Greg and had him here to apologize.” I have no idea why that’s what my brain’s latching onto. “You could have given me a heads-up. But no, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Or is it beneath you to consider me in anything you do?”

I’m in his space now. Close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and I don’t care. My finger jabs at his chest, and he doesn’t move.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he growls.

“Do what?”

“Stand there and pretend I don’t consider you. Every goddamn decision I’ve made since putting that ring on your finger has had you somewhere in it.”

A bitter laugh tears from my throat. “Oh, well, how lucky for me. Maybe next time you can actually tell me about one of them.” Each word lands like the accusation it is. “I’m so tired of feeling like a passenger in my own life.”

His jaw works. I watch the muscle jump in his cheek, watch his hands flex at his sides, and for one wild second, I think he might grab me. Might shut me up with his hand around my throat or his mouth on mine.

But he doesn’t move. And that… that stokes my anger even more. Because how can he be so controlled when I feel like I might explode from everything? I’m overwhelmed, tired, and, well, I feel so goddamn used.

I continue to pace until I feel my control return. Well, at least the semblance of it. By now, my palms are tender from how hard I’ve been digging my nails into the soft flesh. When I raise one and study it, the small crescent marks look angry.

“I didn’t choose this,” I whisper. The anger’s burning out, leaving something raw and shaking underneath. “I didn’t choose to marry into your world. I didn’t choose any of it. My dad made that choice for me, and then you made it again when you stood up in that church, and now I’m here, and I still don’t get a say in anything that matters.”