Page 23 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
The manipulation of it all. As if romantic staging could somehow conjure emotions that don’t exist. As if I could be maneuvered into declarations like some lovesick fool in one of those novels she hides behind her economic journals.
My phone vibrates. Luigi confirming tomorrow’s session.
Not her.
She knows better than to interrupt my evening routine. Ten years of training have taught her that much. Even in her dramatic exit, she maintains protocol. The perfect wife to the end.
10:15.
The candles have burned halfway down. One gutters in the wind, fighting to stay lit. I watch it struggle, the flame dancing wildly before finally succumbing. Smoke curls up in a thin gray ribbon, dissipating into nothing.
Like her little tantrum will. They always do.
She used to light candles every night when we first married. The first time she did it, I told her the scent was too strong, and the next night they were gone. Replaced with unscented pillars that gave light without intrusion.
She learned fast. I’ll give her that.
10:47.
She’s late.
Not that it matters. Let her walk off her anger. Let her realize how ridiculous she’s being. Three words. She’s destroying ten years over three words I never promised to say.
I pour another scotch, the bottle clinking against crystal. Below, Monaco glitters with its usual display of excess. Somewhere down there, my wife is learning what it means to walk away from Aivan Cannizzaro.
She’ll be back.
They always come back.
11:23.
Except she doesn’t.
The irritation starts as a low burn in my chest. She’s pushing it now. Testing boundaries that shouldn’t be tested. We have rules, unspoken but understood. She doesn’t make scenes. She doesn’t storm off. She certainly doesn’t stay out past midnight like some teenager making a point.
I move inside, bringing the scotch with me. The penthouse feels different without her in it. Too quiet, but I refuse to call it empty. It’s peaceful. No humming from the kitchen. No clicking heels on marble. No vanilla-scented ghost trailing through my space.
Maybe this is better.
The thought surprises me. But why not? No more carefully orchestrated dinners I didn’t ask for. No more wounded looks when I work late. No more silent expectations hanging in the air like smog.
11:45.
In our bedroom—no, fuck, my bedroom—her nightgown lies across the chair. Pale blue silk that makes her skin glow like pearl.
“It’s comfortable,”* she’d explained once. *“Helps me sleep better.”
Always choosing comfort over style. Another disappointment in a growing list.
The shower still smells like her shampoo. Honey and flowers, something she special-orders from Provence. The bottle is nearly empty. She’ll need to order more soon.
Or not.
Maybe this is her play. Stay away long enough that I come begging. Make me realize what I’m “missing.”
She doesn’t know me at all if she thinks that’s how this works.
2:17 AM.
