Because her new husband was an arrogant, high-handed billionaire who thought he knew the best for her, he’d deemed that Mimi would leave the nearby hotel and move into his penthouse. And hadn’t seen fit to inform her until the last minute.
She had thought they were going for a quick boat ride.
Instead, it was only as the sleek wooden motorboat eased toward the dock that Renzo deigned to inform her she was leaving the hotel.
Trapped in the awe-inspiring sight ahead of her—the building was a striking blend of modern luxury and Venetian tradition with its smooth sandstone facade gleaming in the setting sun—she had stared open-mouthed. It was close to the Grand Canal but far removed from its touristy chaos.
The soft slap of water against the dock mingled with the distant hum of gondoliers’ songs and the occasional clatter of footsteps on cobblestones. The air carried a blend of salt from the lagoon, the faint metallic tang of the boat’s engine, and the floral sweetness wafting from planters lining the building’s private landing.
It annoyed her that he was making her decisions for her, and yet there was too much to take in. Especially after being ensconced amid the cloying sterility of the hospital and the hotel for a month.
The staggering luxury of his home only increased her discomfort as they rode the private elevator to the penthouse. When the doors opened, she got lost in the view once again.
The city stretched out before her through floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking mix of shimmering water, Gothic architecture, and the golden glow of streetlights reflected on the canals.
Renzo dropped her little overnight bag on the sleek coffee table, his tall frame at ease in the starkly modern surroundings. “Welcome to your new home,bella,” he said calmly, holding his hand out to her. “I would carry you over the threshold, but I think you’re not in the mood.”
So he knows that I am angry?
Mimi stared at his hand with its long fingers and square nails. As familiar as her own. The memory of how gently and carefully those large hands could hold their son tugged at her heartstrings even now.
The sight of their tiny son cradled against his broad chest was fast turning into her favorite thing in the world. For some foolish reason that wasn’t based in reality, she had assumed that Renzo would falter at holding such a fragile newborn or that, like some of her friends’ partners, he would balk at being a hands-on father.
But nothing was off-limits in his role as an attentive, first-time father, and if possible, her ovaries had melted at how easily he slipped into the role. The idea of building a true connection to him and nurturing their new family for real had seeded deep inside her heart, despite her struggles to keep herself outside the fake dream she was living in.
As a husband, though…she didn’t know what to expect from him.
She knew that he had been rocked to his core that Luca had been born early and that there were complications with his birth. But all along, he’d been there for her, every step of the way, every hour.
In the last few days, however, he had retreated.
The smushing hugs and the quick kisses at her temple and the wrapping his arm around her…he had touched her less and less. And the realization that she missed it hit her smack in the face.
Was it because she wasn’t a near-hysterical, needy woman anymore? How could she be angry that he was making decisions for her and yet want him to hold her as if she were precious for as long as possible?
He’d also been gone more and more, work diverting his attention from her and even Luca.
It was exactly what she had prepared for, what she had known would happen, and yet it left her restless, distressed even. Ridiculous because this was real life, and he owed her nothing more than what he’d already given her.
“I know you’re angry with me,cara.” Renzo’s voice gentled as if he were dealing with a wounded animal that might take a bite out of his hand any moment. He moved to stand by the windows, watching her with those sharp, assessing eyes. “But you’re so exhausted that you’re weaving where you stand. Won’t you come in?”
She didn’t miss that he had modified the command into a request. Feeling like a recalcitrant child, Mimi walked in, her footsteps barely audible on the polished wood floors.
The living room was a study in understated luxury—sleek Italian furniture, a low glass coffee table, and abstract art that somehow complemented the ancient city spread out below them. A wide terrace wrapped around the penthouse, with glimpses of the glittering lagoon visible even from inside.
Exhaustedwasn’t the right word for the feeling in her body. She felt…empty. Hollow. Her chest ached with grief she couldn’t explain.
“I’ve arranged for everything you might need,” he said, gesturing subtly around the penthouse. “There’s a chef on call who will deliver freshly made meals four times a day. A nurse if you feel unwell, a lactation specialist to help you pump. And then there’s the housekeeper, though she won’t disturb you unless you call for her. There’s also a nutritionist, a mobility coach, and—”
“Are you that desperate for me to get back into shape?” she said, infuriated by his directions. The effort he’d gone to should have comforted her. Yet the clinical perfection of it all—the penthouse, the arrangements, the instructions—only deepened the sense of isolation. “Am I to transform myself into the perfect trophy wife suitable for the name DiCarlo?”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, nostrils flaring. “The doctors recommended that you would spring back better if you incorporate light exercise and stretching. I wanted you to have an expert so that you don’t hurt yourself. As for turning you into something you’re not…”
“I don’t want your bloody experts, Renzo,” she snapped. Did he have to remind her that she’d never fit into this sophisticated life? And why the hell did that hurt so much? “Take me back. You had no right to bring me here without consulting me.”
He moved closer, tension radiating from him. And for a reason she couldn’t fathom, Mimi ate up the tension. She liked that he was at least discomfited by all this. God, was she turning into a drama queen like her mother and Pia? Why did she feel this unnerving urge to shatter his self-composure?
“I tried to bring it up,” Renzo said. “You refused to discuss it.”
