We shared a bed again. But we were never intimate. Enzo knew I rejected him—physically, mentally. So he didn’t touch me. His walk‑in closet was on the second floor. Every morning I’d pick out the suit and shirt he’d chosen the day before, then go to the accessories area for a watch, cufflinks, tie. These were our final days. We mimicked the routines of the past five years. With one look, I knew what he wanted to wear. With one glance from me, he knew to tilt his head up for me to tie his tie, or raise his hand for me to fasten his cufflinks. Outside the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, Long Island trees cast shifting shadows. Wind blew through the leaves, throwing pale green light onto the white marble floor. In the mirror, he wore a charcoal Brioni suit. I wore a peach silk slip dress. At that moment, peaceful and gentle, we really did look like newlyweds. But we weren’t. We were just temporary lovers. Or not even that. The hatred between us far outweighed any lov
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