Her feud with Massimo has mellowed a lot since the wedding.
“Let it all out,cara ragazza25,” she murmurs.
When I’m finally done, I slump against her legs, wiping my mouth. My satin dress is wrinkled, but I can’t bring myself to care. Giuliana helps me to my feet and over to the sinks.
“Are you pregnant?” she asks as I splash water on my face.
I freeze.
“How did you know?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Non sono stupida26.First, you just threw up out of nowhere. Second, you haven’t touched the champagne all evening.”
Guess itwaskind of obvious.
After losing Alessandra—or Alessio—Enzo and I decided I’d get my implant removed and let things happen naturally. We weren’t exactly trying, but we weren’t preventing it either.
After a week of feeling sick, I took a pregnancy test. Then I got an ultrasound—because I wanted to be sure.
I haven’t told Enzo yet. Not because I’m waiting for the perfect moment, but because… there hasn’t been one today.
“How far along?” Giuliana asks gently, her smile warm.
“Eight weeks.”
The bathroom door creaks open, a guest stepping inside, breaking the moment. But before pulling away, Giuliana hugs me tightly and whispers in my ear: “Sono così feliceper voi due27.”
I kick off my shoes and bounce onto the bed, sinking into the mattress with a sigh.
Enzo smiles, lifting my aching feet—punished all day by heels—and begins massaging the arches. A moan slips from me, my head falling back.
“Did you have a good birthday?” he asks.
I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “The best. Thank you.”
He switches to my other foot, his thumbs kneading deep. “I have one last present for you.”
My brows knit. “Another?”
He sets my feet gently on the bed, then crosses to his dresser. When he turns back, a stack of envelopes rests in his hands.
“It’s not exactly a present,” he says. “Just something I wanted you to have.”
As he steps closer, my breath catches. I know that paper. That handwriting. I sit bolt upright.
“My letters,” I whisper, eyes stinging.
He places them in my lap.
I trace the worn edges, a watery laugh escaping me. “You kept them.”
“How could I throw away the only piece of you I still had?”
My throat tightens. “You stopped writing.”
“I was scared,” he admits. “Scared of what you’d think of me… of the life I was living. Scared I’d corrupt you.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “Pretty sure you should’ve been worried about me corrupting you.”
