Page 12 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
I can’t.
I literally cannot imagine it because I had no idea any of this happened.
“She even stayed with Elena during the surgery,” Luigi’s still talking, scrolling through endless photos of a fat orange cat. “Five hours in that waiting room,” the other man reminisces with a shake of his head. “I’ve never seen Elena cry like that. But Sienah, she just sat there, calm as a saint, promising everything would be fine.”
“When was this?”
“Three weeks ago? Maybe four?” Luigi shrugs. “Time flies when your cat’s not dying. George is fat and happy now, stealing my prosciutto every chance he gets.”
Three weeks. Four weeks. The numbers spin in my head like RPM readings. My own wife disappeared to another country, and I didn’t even notice she was gone.
“I need to go.” The words come out sharper than intended.
Luigi’s still talking about the damn cat as I head for the door.
The drive home takes thirty-two minutes in Monaco traffic. Thirty-two minutes with leather under my palms and the engine’s controlled fury nowhere near matching the thing building in my chest. Not confusion. Never confusion. But something that makes my jaw clench like I’m fighting G-forces.
Monte Carlo streams past my windshield. White yacht hulls bob in the harbor like toys in a rich man’s bathtub. The casino already throwing light pollution into the darkening sky. Everything in its place, everything running like clockwork.
Except...
My phone stays silent in its holder. No evening text from Sienah. She usually sends something around now. Small reminders. Little questions. Things I answer with one word while thinking about apex speeds.
The silence has weight. Like that half-second before you realize you’ve misjudged your braking point.
I take the corner toward home faster than necessary, tires singing that particular note that means I’m riding the edge. The gates recognize my car, sliding open to welcome me to my perfectly ordered life.
But her spot by the window is empty.
Third panel from the left, where she always waits when I come home. Where late afternoon light used to catch her watching for me. Ten years of that silhouette. Ten years of knowing someone was waiting.
The absence hits like unexpected turbulence. My pulse actually kicks up. Cardiovascular response to an empty window.
Cazzo.
I kill the engine but don’t move. Just sit there gripping the wheel. She’s inside. Has to be. Kitchen maybe. Or the garden. Or any of the dozen places a wife might be at 6:47 PM on a Tuesday.
But my gut knows different. That same instinct that tells you when another driver’s about to do something stupid. When rain’s coming before the first drops hit.
I grab my gym bag and head inside.
The house greets me with conditioned air and silence. Our foyer gleams with Italian marble and fresh orchids. White Phalaenopsis she replaces every Monday. Today’s are perfect as porcelain, scentless as silk.
“Sienah?” My voice echoes off high ceilings.
Nothing.
Then I see it. Candlelight flickering from the dining room. Soft jazz floating from the sound system. Billie Holiday crooning about foolish things. And movement through the wall of glass leading to the terrace.
I move closer, and there she is.
She’s standing at the railing, but not the way she stood this morning. Not the way I’ve ever seen her. This is Sienah transformed. The cream silk dress from Paris clings to every curve, the one I bought her last year that she saves for special occasions. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders instead of her usual elegant twist. She’s even wearing the diamonds I gave her for her birthday. The ones that catch light like trapped stars.
She turns at the sound of the terrace door, and her face lights up, a vision of loveliness so damn radiant that just looking at her makes my chest tight. Her smile is pure sunshine, and she practically bounces on her heels like she’s been waiting all day for this moment.
“You’re home!” She moves toward me with that particular grace that’s always made me want to mess up her perfect composure. “And early! Luigi must have let you go.”
“He mentioned George.” I set down my gym bag, watching her carefully. Something’s different. Something beyond the dress and the candles and the way she’s looking at me like I’m about to hand her the moon.
