THIS TRIP WAS MORE THAN HIS BIRTHDAY

Chapter 1

Elowen

The villa in the photographs looked like something pulled from a dream, all sun-bleached stone and terracotta tiles spilling down the cliffside toward water so blue it didn't seem real.

I traced my finger across the glossy image on my phone screen while standing in our bedroom doorway, watching Adrian stare out the window at nothing, his wheelchair positioned exactly where the afternoon light fell across the hardwood floors in golden slashes that made everything look softer than it was, gentler than the reality of our life had become.

"Italy," I said quietly and carefully, because every word felt like stepping on ice that might crack beneath my weight, and I'd learned over two years to measure my tone, my volume, my very breathing against the unpredictable shifts in his mood. "Adrian, this is beautiful, but are you sure you're up for traveling right now, the doctors said…"

"The doctors say a lot of things," he interrupted without turning toward me, his voice flat and cold in that way that made my stomach clench because I knew what came next, the same pattern we'd danced through a thousand times where I expressed concern and he heard criticism, where I tried to care and he found ammunition.

"They said I'd walk again if I committed to therapy, but we both know whose fault it is that I'm not committed to anything anymore, don't we, Elowen?"

There it was, the blade sliding between my ribs with practiced precision, and I closed my eyes against the sting because crying didn't help and anger wasn't allowed and defending myself only made everything worse.

So I swallowed the words that wanted to claw their way out, the truth that the accident wasn't my fault even though he'd been driving away from our argument, even though he'd been the one who'd refused to calm down before getting behind the wheel, even though the drunk driver who'd run the red light was the actual villain in this story.

But Adrian had decided two years ago that I was the one who deserved punishment and he'd been delivering it ever since with cruelty.

"I just want you to be comfortable," I managed, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will.

I moved into the room with the phone still clutched in my hand, the villa's image mocking me with its promise of beauty when I knew the trip would be anything but peaceful. "If this is what you want for your birthday, then of course we'll go, I'll make all the arrangements and…"

"Matteo and Kian are coming," Adrian said, and this time he did turn his wheelchair to face me, his blue eyes sharp and assessing in his too-thin face, and there was something in his expression that made warning bells chime in the back of my mind, something calculating and cruel that I couldn't quite decipher.

"I've already invited them, both confirmed they'd be there, so you'll need to arrange accommodations for four, make sure the villa has enough space because we'll be there for two weeks, my birthday and beyond."

I felt my eyebrows draw together before I could school my features into neutrality.

Confusion threading through me because Adrian knew how Matteo and Kian felt about each other, had complained for years about his two best friends' inexplicable inability to get along, and putting them in close quarters for two weeks seemed like a recipe for disaster rather than celebration.

"Both of them? Adrian, you know they barely tolerate being in the same room together, maybe it would be better to…"

"To what, Elowen? To keep them separate like children who can't play nice?" His laugh was bitter and sharp, echoing off the high ceilings of our bedroom, and he wheeled closer to me with deliberate slowness, eating up the space between us until I could smell the coffee on his breath and see the tiny lines of pain bracketing his mouth.

"This is my birthday, my one wish, and I want my wife and my two best friends with me in Italy, is that really too much to ask, or are you going to deny me this too, add it to the list of things you've taken from me?"

The guilt rose like to my chest, familiar and suffocating, filling my lungs and pressing against my chest until I wanted to scream just to release the pressure.

But I didn't scream because I didn't scream anymore, didn't rage or fight or defend myself, I just absorbed and accommodated and tried desperately to keep the peace in a marriage that had become a warzone where I was the only casualty that mattered.

I couldn't figure out how we got here. All the promises and love we had for each other were no where to be found.

Adrian used to worship the feet I walked on. I felt like the most luckiest woman because he loved me. But now...

"Of course not, if that's what you want then I'll make it work, I'll make sure everything is perfect." I manage to say.

"Good," he said, and his hand shot out to catch my wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones with just enough pressure to remind me how much stronger he still was despite the wheelchair, despite the injuries, despite everything, and his thumb stroked across my pulse point in a mockery of tenderness.

"You're good at that, aren't you, making things perfect on the surface while everything underneath rots, my beautiful wife who smiles for the cameras and plays the devoted caretaker while counting the days until she's free."

"That's not fair," I whispered, but I didn't pull away because pulling away would trigger another spiral, another accusation, another hour or three of him listing every way I'd failed him, every moment I'd fallen short of the perfection he demanded as penance for sins I hadn't committed. "I've never wanted to be free of you, Adrian, I love you, I've always loved you."

"Love," he repeated, tasting the word like it was poison, and then he released my wrist with a slight push that made me stumble back half a step, his expression twisting into something ugly and raw. "You don't know what love is, Elowen, if you did you wouldn't have pushed me that night, wouldn't have made me so angry I couldn't see straight, wouldn't have destroyed everything we were supposed to be."

I opened my mouth to respond, to say something, anything that might bridge the impossible distance between us. But he turned his wheelchair away before I could find words that weren't just more fuel for his fire.

And I was left standing there with my phone still showing that beautiful villa and my wrist throbbing where his fingers had dug in and my heart aching with a grief that had no outlet because the man I'd married was gone and this stranger wearing his face hated me with a passion that burned hotter than love ever had.

"Pack for warm weather," Adrian said without looking at me, his attention back on the window and whatever demons he saw in his own reflection. "And make sure you bring that red dress, the one I bought you for our anniversary, I want you to wear it for the birthday dinner."

I nodded even though he couldn't see me, my throat too tight for speech, and I backed out of the room on silent feet because I'd learned to move like a ghost in my own home.

Learned to take up as little space as possible.

Learned to disappear into the walls when his darkness became too heavy to witness, and only when I was safely down the hall in the guest room I'd claimed as my office did I let myself lean against the closed door and press my palms against my eyes, breathing through the wave of exhaustion that threatened to pull me under.

Two weeks in Italy with Adrian, Matteo and Kian, three men who barely tolerated each other for reasons I'd never understood, trapped in close quarters where there'd be no escape and no privacy and no respite from whatever game Adrian was playing.

Because I could feel it in my bones that this trip was about more than his birthday, more than celebration, something was waiting for me in Positano and I didn't know if I had the strength left to face it.