“Che cosa?” Chiara says, a hand rising to her sauce-slicked mouth, green eyes wide with shock.
“Wait, Ansel and Charlie are married?” asks Michelle.
Selina rolls her eyes. “On what planet?”
Beau shakes his heavy head at the table. “Can everyone bring their voices down a notch or two, please?”
“This is an outrage!” Ansel shouts even louder than before.
“Great, thanks. That’s perfect, guys,” Beau mutters before dropping his head to the table again and covering his ears with his palms.
“Why are you wearing my ring?” Ansel growls across the table.
“Yourring?” Dario asks, but the question gets swallowed up in the murmurs and growing commotion.
Charlie cowers. “I was just trying it on. It got stuck, and I got scared!”
“You’re married?” Chiara asks Ansel, affronted.
Ansel huffs out a breath. “If I had known this dinner was going to turn into a trial, I would’ve brought my lawyer.”
“Let me assure you, nobody is on trial here,” Violetta says, the calm, collected voice of reason at this table where emotions have already shot sky-high. “We are simply getting to the root of a raised issue. The Terms and Conditions clearly stated that all entrants must be unmarried, otherwise they could be rightfully disqualified and have their winnings revoked.”
A sheen of sweat forms over Ansel’s nose. “Who reads the Terms and Conditions?”
Everyone at the table raises their hands, except him and Selina. Clearly noticing she is the odd one out and not wanting to be lumped in with Ansel, she says, “My talent agent read it for me. I trust her.”
Dario reels with uncertainty. “What were your intentions here?”
“I’m married. I have kids. I wanted a vacation! Sue me!” Ansel says, then grows pale. “Don’t actually sue me.”
“Bastardo!” Chiara yells as she throws her full wineglass in his face and stomps out of the backyard. Michelle perks up, clearly trying to tamp down a smile over things getting juicy, just like on her favorite TV show.
Ansel stands, failing to dry himself with the small linen napkin. His shirt stains a bloody red. “This is getting out of hand.”
Violetta glances to her stack of papers, obviously also perplexed by this turn of events, before slipping them into her attaché case. What a waste. In his hasty misunderstanding, Dario had asked her to secure Charlie’s departure when Ansel was the deceitful party this whole time. He should not have cast premature blame. Nobody in the villa is going to trust him or his judgment now.
“Signor Voight, I will book your passage home at once,” Violetta says, producing a work laptop and setting it on the table beside her plate.
Michelle seems nearly giddy with the way Ansel’s anger morphs into rage.
He says, “Geh zum Teufel! I am leaving?”
Violetta nods. “Si. You qualified under false pretenses. Therefore, you are no longer eligible to receive the prize of this stay.”
Ansel shakes his head in open-mouthed shock. “The whole world is going to hear about this!” His snarl is sad. The watery embitterment of an overworked white man who thinks the world owes him way more than it does.
“I’d like to remind you of the ironclad NDA you signed, Signor Voight,” says Violetta. Her gaze, cast up from her laptop screen, is ice-cold.
Disgraced, damp, and out of fighting words, Ansel retreats into the house to pack.
The table stays quiet for a long moment as everyone processes what just happened. Dinner is definitely over. Tortellini grows soggy in its fragrant sauce.
“Here,” Selina says, walking over to Charlie. She takes a bit of the oil from the dish used to garnish the fresh bread and wipes some of it on either side of the ring. Holding his wrist down with one hand, she uses the other to slowly work the ring back and forth until it gets slippery enough to glide off.
Michelle claps for Selina despite their squabble earlier, clearly not reading the vibe of the group. Selina sets the ring in the center of the table so they can all stare at the offending token that shot their dinner to hell.
“You thought I was married?” Charlie asks Dario.
