Chapter 189 Rosalia
I notice the quiet at first.
Not the empty kind, but the heavy, watching silence that usually pervades the De Luca grounds, but the kind that's thick and dull and like the world is swaddled in cotton. I lie there for a moment, half-asleep, listening. No rumble of engines from the road. No shouting. Just the thrum of the heater and the steady sound of Rafael's breath beside me.
I let my hand trail up to my stomach before my brain fully registers.
It’s an instinct now. Protecting.
I press my palm on it, feeling that subtle strength, a strength that was absent weeks, months ago, and yet here it is, evidence of a tender, unstoppable life growing within me. A lump swells in my throat, a sudden, sharp rush of feeling erupts in my chest.
You're real, I think. Still amazed by that. Still afraid.
Rafael shifts against me, a slight noise escaping his chest as he rolls to his side. His arm comes around my waist, his hand lying pressed atop mine, holding me in place as he sleeps. Even in his sleep, he understands where I am to be touched.
I close my eyes again, breathing him in.
My existence has, for so long, been one of peril, measured in threats repelled and disasters postponed. I was brought up on the belief that love is conditional, even temporary, something one could be held against, should one not be mindful. Something transactional.
But Rafael has proven that wrong in so many ways. He is far from perfect, I know my husband may not be a “good” man, but he is perfect for me.
When I finally open my eyes again, light has crept into the room, pale and cold. I slowly push myself up, careful not to risk nausea in my stomach. Rafael moves when I do.
“Rosa,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from sleep. His eyes flicker open, piercing even now. Always alert. Always observing.
“Morning,” I whisper.
He looks at my face for a moment, his brow furrowed. “You okay?”
I nod. "Just thinking."
That warrants a silent huff of air. “Always thinking,”
I grin despite myself.
Rafael sits up, pulling me with him, his hand still resting on my waist as if he is waiting for me to disappear at any second. He reaches out to put the robe draped over the chair on me, his touch tender, even close to reverence.
“You didn’t sleep well,” he says.
“I did,” I lie.
He didn’t push but I know he will probably go search up something on Google on why could my wife not be sleeping well and what to do about it.
I put my legs over the side of the bed and get up, padding barefoot towards the window. The glass is cool under my fingertips as I draw the curtain away.
Snow.
No storm. No thick flakes. Just a gentle fall, one that is white, drifting onto dark hedges and stone walkways. Smoothing out all edges where it lands.
“Oh,” I gasp
Rafael appears behind me, his chest against mine. He sees whatever I'm seeing, and his tension releases. It's almost as if my eyes are radiating this sensation through him, as if his very breath becomes easier.
“First snow,” he says. “You always liked it.”
“I still do.” I pause and whisper, “It makes things feel… clean.”
His arms squeeze around me. “You are,” he says firmly. “Everything about you.”
I swallow, blinks throbbing.
Again, I replay the visit with the doctor in my mind, to the way the look on her face changed and the hesitation in the way she spoke.
You’re a bit farther along than we first thought.
The words echo, thick with meaning. More weeks. Less time. A timeline that now seems too quick, too fragile.
I turn in his embrace, resting my forehead against his chest. “Rafael.”
“Yes.”
“I’m scared.”
His hand rises, cupping the back of my head, keeping it in place. “I know.”
“I don’t want this taken from us,” I whisper. “I don’t want…”
“It won’t,” he assures me, his voice low and commanding. “Nothing touches you. Nothing touches our child.”
Our child.
These are words that sink into my skin like both a promise and a burden at the same time.
He gives the top of my head a lingering kiss. "I have to go to a meeting later. It's not an emergency. I'll be back before dinner."
“You don’t have to cancel everything,” I say, pulling back slightly to look at him.
“I want to be here with you everytime,” he says matter-of-factly.
That’s Rafael. No speeches. No flourishes. Just presence.
Later, after he leaves, I am left sitting alone in the sitting room with a cup of tea cold in my hands and the snow continuing to fall outside. The house looms too large and too silently around me again and I think the thoughts I always think when I am left alone for too long.
To my father.
The relationship itself was always complicated. Love and disappointment entwined. Expectations and resentment mixed. Yes, he was my father and shielded me from a lot but I also learnt the power of neglect and the understanding that love did not always mean unconditional love.
I have not told him yet.
About the baby. About how my life has changed in ways he never could have foreseen. I realize that a part of me hopes, a ridiculous part. that this might change him. He might see me, not as a problem to be solved or a prize to be won, but as a woman building something. Though I know a part of him must hate me for failing in love with Rafael especially after he killed my brother and he must hate that I’m carrying his child.
My phone vibrates on the table, ending the silence.
His name fills the screen.
I look at it fixedly for a long time before responding.
"Rosalia," my father says, his voice polished, practiced.
"You've been hard to reach."
“I've been busy,” I say calmly.
“A shame,” he says. “I’d hoped we could meet. There are things we need to discuss.”
I look over toward the window, to the snow falling on the stone. “Is this about family, or business?” I ask.
A moment. A moment too long.
“Does it matter?” he asks.
“Yes, I think. It does. Schedule an appointment for us to meet later.”
“I'll let you know,” I say instead.
We end the call politely. Carefully, as if we’re two dancers circling some fragile, sharp thing.
When Rafael comes back later that night, snowflakes sprinkled onto his coat, I am waiting for him downstairs, in the entrance hall. The first thing he notices is my stance, my attempt at hiding my tension.
“Who called?” he asked.
“My father.”
His jaw clenches. “What did he want?”
"To meet."
Rafael breathes deeply. “And you said?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
He looks at me for a long time and nods. “I don’t like it.”
“I know.”
“But if you go,” he says next, with a calm but firm tone, “You won’t be alone.”
I look at him, something warm and fierce flowering in my chest. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
That night, cuddled with me as the snow continues to fall outside, Rafael’s hand lies protectively across my abdomen once more. I shut my eyes, listening to the beating of his heart and the reassuring power of the house around me.