Two Years of Marriage, I Never Got My Wedding Ring Chapter 12

Two Years of Marriage, I Never Got My Wedding Ring Chapter 12

When I arrived at my apartment, the rain still hadn’t stopped.

The apartment was in Brooklyn. There was a 24-hour convenience store on the ground floor, and the window looked out onto a row of tall trees.

I had lived here before the wedding.

After I married into the Ricci family, Alessio had my things moved to Manhattan.

I couldn’t bring myself to sell this place, so I just came back every now and then to clean.

Pushing the door open now, the apartment felt cold and damp from being empty for so long.

I turned on the lights and set my suitcase down in the living room.

My phone screen was still lit up with the photo from the unknown number.

I stared at it for a long moment, then laughed.

Two years ago, a photo like this would have kept me up all night.

Now, I just felt tired.

I placed my phone facedown on the table and went to the kitchen to boil some water.

The kettle had just clicked off when the doorbell rang.

I assumed it was a delivery.

But when I opened the door, Alessio was standing outside.

He had changed his clothes, but his hair was still damp, and his face was paler than usual.

He was holding a paper bag.

I didn’t move.

“What is it, Alessio?”

Alessio looked at me, his gaze falling on the damp patch on my shoulder.

“You got wet?”

“Just a few steps from the garage to the lobby.”

His brow furrowed.

“You should dry your hair.”

I glanced at the bag in his hand.

“Did you come all this way to bring me a towel?”

Alessio looked down, as if just now realizing how strange this must seem.

Inside the bag were cold medicine, tea bags, a towel, and a box of Band-Aids.

I had no idea why he’d brought Band-Aids.

Not until his gaze fell on my right palm.

I opened my hand.

There was a faint red line there, an indentation from the edge of the ring I had been clutching.

It was barely visible.

It had stopped hurting hours ago.

But Alessio stared at it for a long, long time.

“Does it hurt?”

The question came far too late.

So late that, for a moment, I didn’t know how to answer.