She knew about Bella Donna.

She knew that when his burning red eyes darkened with memory and when winter’s chill began to fall away from the mansion’s grounds and Mardi Gras approached, when nights were empty of his flirting charm and fluid grace, when the stars glimmered down at nothingness in the wind she rode, she knew that he had left her for the familiar forgetful comforts of drunkenness, thievery, or women.

She knew this but she never took her hand to stay him or denied him the need to go elsewhere in those dark times.

She did not because she knew him. None of those women mattered.

Only she.