Page 22 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
Even if I don’t know where I’m going from here—
When I’m afraid, I place my trust in You.
Aivan
THE TERRACE DOOR CLOSESwith a click that might as well be a gunshot.
I pour myself three fingers of scotch and settle back into my chair, watching the candles she lit flicker in the Mediterranean breeze. The wax drips steady as a heartbeat onto the white linen, each drop marking another second of her theatrical exit.
One hour.
That’s all it takes for a woman to realize she’s overreacted. One hour of walking around Monaco in those heels she insists on wearing despite my repeated suggestions to choose comfort over fashion. One hour of the night air cooling her temper, of rational thought replacing emotional hysteria.
The Patek Philippe on my wrist reads 9:47.
By 10:47, she’ll walk through that door with tears in her eyes and apologies on her lips. We’ll have the kind of makeup sex that reminds me why I tolerate these periodic emotional outbursts. Hard and fast against the bedroom wall, her nails raking down my back while she gasps my name. Then slow and deep in our bed, until she’s boneless and sated and whispering those words in Italian she thinks I don’t understand.
Ti amo. Mio cuore. Sempre tuo.
The memory of her voice, husky and breathless in the dark, sends heat straight to my groin. I shift in my chair, irritated by my body’s predictable response. Ten years of marriage and she still affects me like I’m some hormone-driven teenager. It’s the one variable I’ve never been able to control, this visceral need for her that defies logic and discipline.
9:52.
The champagne sits untouched between two glasses, bubbles rising and dying in endless cycles. Dom Pérignon 1996.
Our wedding vintage.
Of course.
Everything about tonight was orchestrated for maximum emotional impact. Theosso bucothat takes her four hours to prepare, timed to finish exactly when I walked through the door. The candles arranged in perfect symmetry, ivory pillars she special-orders from some boutique in Paris. Even the roses scattered across the table, Sterlings from our garden because she knows they’re my grandmother’s favorite variety.
No.
Were.
Were her favorite variety.
