Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 218 - 28 ~ Mira

Jace’s message came in at 8:27 p.m.

Jace: Home soon.

I stared at it for so long the letters started to blur.

It was just one line. There was no apology. No explanation. No question. No pressure either.

And yet it felt heavier than anything else he could’ve sent.

I curled deeper into the sheets, shifting slightly to relieve the pressure under my ribs. My daughter had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight, probably picking up on my mood, and each movement made me more aware of the hollow ache in my chest.

I didn’t want to be angry.

I didn’t even want space.

Not really.

I just... needed to breathe without feeling like every second of my day was being monitored. I needed to remember I was still capable. Still trusted. Still... me. I knew that I may slightly have overreacted. His intentions were pure. They always had been. But I was beginning to feel suffocated and he needed to understand that.

I tried to exhale slowly, rubbing circles over my belly as if soothing her would somehow soothe me too.

"Baby," I whispered softly, "your dad and I are... figuring things out."

Another soft kick tapped against my palm.

"I know," I murmured. "I miss him too."

There was a knock on the door. It was gentle and careful. So it was certainly not him.

It was one of the helps.

"Madam, dinner is ready downstairs," She called politely.

"I’m okay," I replied. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. "Thank you. I’ll eat later."

She didn’t push. If it was Jace, he would have brought food downstairs reminding me to eat for him and the baby.

I sighed. Why was I thinking of him like he was a distant memory?

The house felt so big when it was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t comfort but the kind that settled on your shoulders and pressed down, reminding you of every unresolved feeling you’d tucked away for later.

"Home soon..." I read the message aloud with a slight edge to my tone.

My throat tightened as the words replayed in my mind.

I wasn’t ready to see him.

I wasn’t ready not to see him either.

So I did the only thing I could.

I placed the phone face-down and whispered, "Just breathe, Mira."

The lights outside shifted as headlights approached the driveway.

He was home.

My heart reacted before my mind did with a sudden rush of warmth, hope, and something painfully soft. I sat up too fast, winced as a sharp kick landed under my ribs, and eased myself back down with a shaky laugh.

"Sorry," I whispered to my belly. "Mommy forgot she can’t move fast anymore."

I listened for the sound of the front door.

I heard a low exchange with staff.

Then there were footsteps.

Slow footsteps.

Ones that hesitated.

Ones that were heavy not from anger, but from guilt.

My pulse fluttered.

He wasn’t coming upstairs immediately.

For some reason, that made my eyes water again.

He was giving me the space I said I wanted.

The space I wasn’t even sure I needed.

I lay back, tired in a way that had nothing to do with pregnancy, and stared at the ceiling until my vision blurred.

I wanted him.

God, I wanted him.

But I didn’t know how to open the door without opening the hurt too.

So I stayed still. I stayed quiet and waited.

~

When he finally came upstairs, the hallway light slipped in beneath the door. My heart stilled.

The doorknob didn’t turn immediately.

For a moment, I thought he might go to the guest room.

The thought sliced me clean.

But then the handle turned, slow and hesitant, and the door opened just enough for him to slip inside. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. He knew every inch of this room better than he knew his own reflection.

I kept my breathing steady, pretending to be asleep.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on his side of the bed. The faintest exhale left him, tired and defeated. I could feel the guilt radiating off him like heat.

He didn’t touch me.

It felt wrong immediately.

He always touched me.

A hand on my stomach.

An arm around my waist.

Fingers brushing my hair away from my face.

Tonight, none of it.

He just lay down slowly, careful not to disturb me, and rolled onto his side and facing away from me.

My heart cracked a little.

I stayed still for as long as I could, listening to his breathing.

It wasn’t steady.

It wasn’t relaxed.

He was awake.

Hurting quietly.

Trying not to make it worse.

I shifted under the covers, slow and careful. My bump brushed the warm space between us and I felt him stiffen instantly.

Still, he didn’t turn.

I swallowed hard and stared at the outline of his back. The broad shoulders that had carried everything for so long. The man who held my world together with hands that were capable of both violence and tenderness.

And right now, all he wanted was to not break me.

A tear slid down my cheek before I could notice.

I whispered his name without sound.

My daughter kicked gently, almost like she knew he was close.

I moved again this time intentionally, letting my hand drift across the sheets until my fingers brushed his back.

He flinched.

Then stilled.

Slowly, so slowly, he shifted an inch... then another... turning just enough that I could see the silhouette of his face in the dark.

He was awake.

His eyes were open.

They were fixed somewhere near my pillow, but he didn’t speak.

I wanted to reach for him.

I wanted him to reach for me.

But neither of us moved.

The space between us felt like a wound.

I closed my eyes to stop the tears.

At some point, exhaustion dragged me under, the sound of his breathing the only thing grounding me as I drifted into sleep.

~

I woke before sunrise.

I was not fully rested. Far from calm. But I was very aware.

The first thing I registered was that the space between us was no longer empty.

He had moved during the night.

His arm was draped lazily across my waist, hand resting over the curve of my bump. His forehead hovered near the back of my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin.

Like his body had given up on the fight before his mind did.

I didn’t move.

At least not yet.

His fingers twitched against my stomach . It was a slow and unconscious act. A gentle reassurance he didn’t know he was giving.

It made something tight in me loosen.

I covered his hand with mine.

His breathing hitched. Then he spoke to me for the first time since the previous morning.

"Mira..." he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and guilt.

I didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting mine with a vulnerability I wasn’t used to seeing. The kind that stripped him down to the bone.

"Are you... okay?" he asked.

The question carried a thousand others inside it.

Are you still hurt?

Are you still scared?

Are you still angry?

Do you still want me?

"I’m trying," I whispered honestly.

Something flickered in his eyes. It was relief mixed with pain.

"I messed up," he said quietly. "And I know I did."

I blinked. "You were scared."

"I still shouldn’t have handled it the way I did."

My throat softened.

"And I shouldn’t have shut you out completely," I murmured.

A small exhale left him, almost like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe again.

I shifted slightly, letting him pull me closer. His hands settled over my bump instinctively, his forehead lowering to my shoulder for a second. It was the closest thing to a silent apology.

"I don’t want to fight with you," I whispered.

He nodded against my skin. "I never want to fight with you."

We stayed that way for a few still, fragile seconds. And I realized how we were two stubborn, imperfect people just trying to figure out how to love each other without letting fear get in the way.

The sun began to rise, soft golden light filling the edges of the room.

He finally lifted his head.

"Let me try again," he said quietly. "Not with controlling you. Not with hovering. Just... being what you need without drowning you in my fear."

I touched his cheek gently.

"Then start by letting me be part of the decisions," I said. "I’m your wife, Jace. Not your fragile secret."

His eyes softened. "You’re my heart. That’s worse."

I laughed quietly.

"We’ll figure it out," I whispered.

"We always do." He smiled a little.

He leaned his forehead against mine, sighing like the weight of the last 24 hours was finally slipping off his shoulders.

And for the first time since the fight, I felt the calm return.

This felt like the beginning of something softer.

Something healed.

Something still ours.