My Cold-Hearted Husband Wants Me Back

The cold air in the prison visiting room stung more than it should have. Lunara sat down across from the man in handcuffs, the orange of his jumpsuit bright against the gray table between them.

Gideon’s glare could’ve pierced concrete. "What do you want, showing up here?" he spat. "Trying to rub it in? That you’ve made it? That you married into money and now you think you’re better than me?"

Lunara didn’t answer at first. She was studying him, searching for a flicker of something, like regret, remorse or anything. But there was nothing. Just the same venom in his eyes she remembered from the last time he raised his hand against her.

"What?" he snapped. "You mute now? Or just smug?"

Her voice was steady when it finally came. "I didn’t come here to gloat."

"Oh? Then what, pity? I don’t need it. Not from you."

"I came to ask you something," she said, her tone colder than the room around them. "Just one thing."

He snorted, but didn’t interrupt.

Lunara’s hands curled into fists under the table. "Was there ever...just once...a time when you loved Mom?"

Silence.

Then a slow, bitter laugh crawled from Gideon’s throat. "Love? You should ask that to your dead mom. Why bother asking me?"