Don Juan had been called a lot of unflattering things throughout his life, but this was the first time someone had called him a bigamist. He pulled back when she said it, shocked by the term. It was an accurate one, he supposed, but it was an ugly thing to say. An uglier word perhaps than even ruined.

She wanted his ring back. Even if he hadn't followed her Spanish her posture would have made it obvious. He shifted his weight, brow furrowed. He still held the pillow across his chest. "No," he said firmly. It wasn't the ring, of course; he didn't have any attachment to the trinket itself and certainly wouldn't fight to keep it if she kicked him out, as she currently seemed hell-bent on doing. It was more what it symbolized: if he gave her the ring, the conversation was over, and he wasn't ready to let it end.

"I made you happy," he insisted. She'd spent months adoring him. That had to count for something, in the end? It seemed surreal that every smile she'd given him, every look, every touch could have all soured so quickly.

---

They had been happy together, almost deliriously so. Perhaps that was what hurt the most — all that happiness, all that love and passion and hope — none of it was real. None of it mattered because he'd pursued her under false pretenses. He'd agreed to destroying her all while smiling.

"It was all fake, you made sure of that. Give it back, your wife is waiting for you."

---

It didn't count for anything, then. Don Juan's face registered hurt, briefly — she was rejecting him. He'd read her poetry in bed, he'd kissed her feet while she drifted towards sleep, he'd picked wildflowers for her to put in the windowsill; she wanted his ring back and wanted him to leave. The expression was quickly masked with anger, though — if he was going to hurt, he at least didn't want her to know it.

"You're choosing this," he hissed at her, as he struggled to work the ring off his finger. "When you regret it later, don't pretend you had to."

---