Chapter 37 IN THE SPACE BETWEEN US
••Luciana••
I finished packing my last bag when I suddenly heard a cacophony—gunshots echoing in the distance. Instinctively, I dashed out of the room, my bare feet hitting the icy floor, my heart racing as the sounds intensified. Shouts mixed with hurried footsteps filled the air, and then, an overwhelming silence engulfed me, heavier than the prior chaos.
As I reached the living room, Roman burst in, cradling Mildred in his arms.
“What’s wr—”
The question fell silent in my throat.
Dark blood soaked Roman’s shirt, spreading ominously. In that fleeting moment, panic washed over me, and I feared it was his blood. My breath caught, but then I heard Mildred’s whimper—a heart-wrenching sound that drew my gaze downward.
There was a small tear in her dress, with blood seeping out.
“Mildred,” I whispered, my voice barely escaping.
With great care, Roman placed her gently onto the chair, pressing a cloth against her arm, applying pressure while frantically rummaging through his pockets.
“Where’s my phone,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Where is it?”
Mildred’s face was ghostly pale, her lips quivering.
I knelt down in front of her, urgency coursing through me.
“Mildred,” I said softly, giving her cheek a gentle tap. “Focus on me. Don’t shut your eyes.”
She blinked slowly, a hint of distress in her voice. “It hurts,” she murmured.
“I understand,” I replied, maintaining a steady tone. “You’re going to be alright.”
I glanced at Roman. “Grab the first aid kit for me.”
He paused for just a moment, then nodded and sprang into action.
“You should call for a nurse now,” I added as he came back, handing me the box. Without a second thought, I took over.
I carefully tended to her wound while keeping a steady stream of conversation going. “Stay with me,” I urged her. “Tell me where it hurts the most.”
“My arm,” she responded faintly.
“Roman, I’m scared,” she said again, her voice trembling.
“I’m right here,” he replied, crouching down next to her. There was a gentleness in his voice that was unusual for him. “I’ve got you.”
I continued to work quietly, aware of Roman’s intense gaze on my every action. I could sense his focus on my hands, on how I managed her injury.
As the bleeding began to subside, I wrapped the wound with care and eased back a little.
“Good job, Mildred,” I said encouragingly. “You did great.”
She managed a weak smile.
The nurse arrived shortly thereafter, moving with quick efficiency. Together, we carefully helped Mildred up the stairs, while Roman lingered nearby, determined not to leave her side until she was comfortably settled in bed and receiving proper care.
Returning to the living room felt overwhelming; it was in disarray as if a tempest had swept through. Blood stained the floor, and a chair lay askew. The atmosphere still felt charged with tension. I grabbed a cloth and began to clean, needing something to occupy my hands and mind.
Roman returned quietly, observing me for a moment before breaking the silence. “You don’t have to do that,” he said gently.
“I know,” I replied, continuing my task.
He stepped closer and added, “Thank you.”
His gratitude caught me off guard, prompting me to meet his gaze. His expression was weary, etched with the weight of guilt that lingered in his eyes.
“For what?” I probed, curious.
“For doing something to save her,” he responded.
“I told you I was a Red Cross; I couldn't just stand back when I knew I could help,” I said, resuming my cleaning. The silence stretched between us, thick and palpable.
Then, he spoke again, this time more deliberately. “Talk to me.”
I paused.
“What is going on,” he continued. “This distance, this coldness. Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
I straightened slowly and faced him. “Sorry for what,” I asked.
“For hurting you,” he said simply. “Even if I don’t understand how.”
I studied his face. There was no arrogance in his tone now. Just honesty."
“It’s fine,” I said quietly.
He frowned. “It’s not. You don’t ignore someone for days because everything is fine.”
I exhaled and set the cloth aside. “I heard you,” I said.
He stiffened. “Heard me where.”
“At the dinner,” I replied. “With Mustapha.”
Understanding flickered across his face.
I continued before he could speak. “I heard what you said about needing someone else, about clubs and women.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Luci—”
“I don’t care what men like you do,” I said, cutting in gently. “I knew what this marriage was from the beginning. I know what world you live in.”
His eyes narrowed just a bit. "So, why do you feel hurt?"
"Even if that’s the case," I replied, locking eyes with him, "I still deserve respect."
A hush fell between us.
“I refuse to be discussed as if I were just an object,” I went on. “Like some sort of contract you tolerate while searching for comfort elsewhere."
He moved in closer. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only said it to end the conversation,” he confessed. “Mustapha was crossing lines, and I wanted to avoid a bad reaction since the deal wasn’t finalized. Offending him would have been much worse.”
I scrutinized his expression for any signs of dishonesty and found none.
“I should have just told you,” he continued. “I should have clarified things.”
“Yes,” I nodded in agreement.
A softer silence enveloped us this time.
“Are we okay now?” he asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
He looked taken aback.
“I know you genuinely meant the apology,” I reiterated. “Men like you don’t easily say sorry; you only do it when you truly mean it.”
For the first time in days, the tension began to lift. Not entirely, but enough to let in a breath of relief.