Was I really going to do this?
"Yes," I found myself confirming. "Yes, you can."
Chapter 9
Alessio
"Thank you for meeting with me."
I shook hands with Harold, the owner of a small hotel in Wimbledon, which, unfortunately, was losing its shine as fast as it was losing its customer base. I only agreed to the meeting as a favour to Damon. Harold was an old family friend, and he'd promised to ask me to take a look at his business and offer advice.
"What do you think?" Damon asked. He'd called while I was still in the lobby.
"It has potential. There's a large peak over June and July, which is not surprising during Wimbledon tennis. But it's still not as high as I'd expect for a large event. There's been a steady decline over the last ten years, and it's not surprising. Public transport in London is excellent, and options for accommodation are endless. People prefer to stay closer to central London and tube in rather than stay somewhere where,quite frankly, there's not much to do. Not when there are cheaper options around. No wonder they're bleeding money."
The only option was to sell or lower their prices while they renovate each room to bring it into this decade. Private holiday homes were waning due to council-imposed restrictions and valid complaints about long-term rental shortages. He needed to take advantage of the dip in the market to service clients who wanted a more homely feel at a competitive price. I also suggested that he focus on their restaurant and bar, as it could bring in extra income for lunch and dinner. When I surveyed the hotel entrance, there was nothing to suggest they even served food, let alone had a decent-size bar inside.
Damon's relieved sigh came down the line. "Thank you for doing this. I advised him many times to sell, but the hotel has been in his family for years. He doesn't want to let it go."
I dug my hands into my pockets as I turned my body and leaned against the check-in desk. The receptionist had been trying her best to garner my attention with a sultry smile, so I turned my back to dissuade any notions she might have of me being interested.
"I can understand that," I remarked. After all, if it hadn't been for a hotel legacy wanting to remain in the family name, I would not currently be a married man.
I rubbed at my chest, just below my heart.
"Well, thanks anyway. I'll let you get back to your day. Tell Millie I said hi. I haven't seen her in a while."
A crack of discomfort cleaved through me at the mention of my wife. "Yeah. I've been busy. She's been busy. With the property acquisition in Scotland and her studies, it's hard to find the time."
"But you are finding time, right?"
"Of course," I dismissed. "Listen, I need to call my driver to collect me. I'll talk to you later."
I pocketed my phone before he could press me for more info.
"Will that be all, Mr Ferrante?"
I turned to the overly attentive receptionist, who suddenly had a few buttons missing on her blouse.
"Yes, thank you."
I whirled around, my phone in hand, ready to message my driver, when a figure walking through the glass doors caught my eye.
I froze, phone in mid-air, as my gaze tracked her movements across the foyer. She had blonde hair with a Louis Vuitton scarf covering her head and tied below her chin. She was wearing dark glasses, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt. Her head was down, and she seemed to be moving quickly across the hall, aiming directly for the row of lifts. She stabbed the button a few times before the doors slid open.
Turn around, turn around.
But instead, she slipped inside and stabbed a few more buttons. With her head still down, the metal doors closed shut, taking her from my vision. But not before I caught sight of a distinctive red bag.
I didn't move. I couldn't. I was unsure why this woman caught my attention, but something about the way she moved and carried herself reminded me of Millie.
But it couldn't be her. Despite recognising a disguise when I saw one, that didn't mean the woman attempting to go incognito was my wife. What would she even be doing here, in Wimbledon? And in a hotel, no less? I owned multiple hotels; hell, she owned them too. If she needed a room for…whatever, because at the moment I could not conjure up one reason why she would, then she had her pick of more than a few. And that red bag I saw? I'm sure the sales assistant lied when she told me it was a limited-edition Birkin.
My heart started to burn again, and I wondered if I was having some sort of stroke.
No. I was being stupid. It wasn't her. I shook my head, a small smile of amusement curving my mouth as I strolled towards the exit. I mean, to even consider that Millie would disguise herself to come to a hotel that had no connection to her? Preposterous!
The cold air hit my face as I paused outside the hotel. Every intuitive cell in my body was screaming at me, and I found myself unable to move—I physically could not force my foot in front of the other.
