Page 39 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
THE ROOM WOULDN’T STOPspinning.
This was bad. This was so, so bad. She’d had one drink. Just one, because the crew member had insisted—“It’s non-alcoholic champagne, Mrs. Cannizzaro! For the victory toast!”—and she hadn’t wanted to seem rude during Aivan’s moment of triumph.
But it wasn’t non-alcoholic. Or something else was in it. The chemical sweetness under the bubbles should have warned her, but by then it was too late.
The bar’s neon lights hurt her eyes, bleeding colors that shouldn’t exist. Bass from the music thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through her unstable heels and making her stomach lurch. Everything smelled like spilled beer and designer cologne and her own fear-sweat.
“You okay, beautiful?”
A man slid onto the barstool beside her. Dark hair slicked with too much product, suit that screamed new money, predator eyes that made her skin crawl even through the fog.
“I’m married.” She held up her ring, except her hand wouldn’t stay still. The diamond caught the bar lights, fracturing them into tiny rainbows that made her dizzy. “Super married. Tremendously married. To a champion.”
“Is that so?” His smile made her want to run, but her legs were made of water. “Where’s this champion husband of yours?”
“With some...some blonde person. Being interviewed.” The words came out slurred, her tongue too thick for her mouth. “She had very big interviews. Two of them. Right in his face.”
The man laughed, moving closer. His breath smelled like mint trying to cover something sour. “Sounds like you need better company.”
“Yes!” The word came out too loud. Several people turned to stare. “Yes, I need a new man. A faithful one. Are you faithful?”
“Absolutely.”
“Liar.” She tried to point at him but missed, her finger landing somewhere near his ear. “All men are liars. My father was a liar. Told my mama he loved her then ran off with his secretary. Got himself killed trying to impress her with stolen money. Mama cried every night after. Her pillow smelled like tears and the vanilla extract she used to hide the wine on her breath.”
“That’s very sad.” His hand landed on her thigh, hot through the thin fabric of her dress.
“Very sad,” she agreed, then frowned at his hand. “Why are you touching me? I need to find a faithful man. Not you. Someone else. Someone who tells his wife he loves her every single day.”
She pushed off the barstool, swaying dangerously. The floor tilted like a ship in storm, but she had a mission now. Find a faithful man. Prove they existed.
She approached a man at the bar. “Excuse me, sir. Are you faithful to your wife?”
He blinked at her. “I’m not married.”
“Oh.” She patted his arm consolingly. “That’s probably for the best. My husband is very handsome. Wins races. Never says he loves me though.” She swayed closer, squinting at him. “You look trustworthy. Would you tell your wife you loved her? If you had one?”
“I...suppose?”
“Promise me.” She gripped his sleeve. “Promise you won’t be like my Aivan. So perfect. So cold. Makes me feel like I’m dying sometimes, wanting three little words he can’t say.”
The man gently extracted himself, looking alarmed. She didn’t notice, already moving to the next target. A businessman in an expensive suit.
“Hello. Quick survey. Do you believe in keeping marriage promises?”
By the time she’d approached her fifth man—asking increasingly personal questions about fidelity and whether he knew how to say “I love you”—the predator from earlier had started following her.
“Let me help you find him upstairs,” he said, his hand sliding around her waist.
He was pulling her toward the elevators, and her legs weren’t working right. The floor kept tilting, the lights kept spinning, and where was Aivan? Why wasn’t he here? Did the blonde reporter take him somewhere?
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
Aivan’s voice cut through the fog like ice water, each word sharp enough to draw blood.
****
RAGE.
