Rodrigo closed the book and pressed his hand against his face, his eyes shutting.
For the past few days he had refused to think about her. Refused to think about the fact that she was going to die because of him.
The previous brides — he hadn't cared. He didn't know who they were or when exactly they'd died. Couldn't picture their faces if he tried. He'd kept it that way on purpose, kept the distance clean and deliberate, because if he didn't know them, he could not grieve them.
But her.
Against everything he'd decided, he'd known her.
He dragged a hand through his hair and pushed back from the desk.
He'd told himself if he ignored it long enough she'd fade like everything else that didn't matter. Three days had passed and he still couldn't get her out of his head —
Rodrigo stood, his eyes moving to the door.
