Chapter eighteen
Ginni
Iwake up feeling absolutely wonderful, like sunshine and rainbows and everything beautiful in the world has been distilled into pure energy and injected directly into my bloodstream. The projector is displaying a gorgeous spring morning scene, complete with blooming cherry blossoms and birds singing in animated trees. Perfect for such a glorious day.
Carlo is already awake beside me, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something soft and concerned that makes my heart flutter with happiness. He’s so attentive, so focused on me. What more could a new bride ask for?
“Good morning, my darling husband,” I chirp, bouncing up to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? I have so many plans for us!”
“Ginni,” Carlo starts, his voice gentle in a way that makes warmth spread through my chest, “about last night...”
“Last night was perfect,” I interrupt brightly, already climbing off the bed to start our day properly. “You were so wonderful, sotender. I’m still glowing from it. But today is a new day, and I have the most marvelous ideas!”
I practically dance around the room, my silk nightgown swirling around my legs like I’m the heroine in a romantic movie. Everything feels heightened, more vivid, like someone has turned up the color saturation on the world. The air itself feels sparkly, charged with possibility and joy.
“First, breakfast,” I announce, clapping my hands together with excitement. “Not just any breakfast, but a proper celebration meal. Eggs Benedict with hollandaise made from scratch, fresh croissants from that divine bakery in South Kensington, that heavenly jam I ordered from France, and coffee made with beans from that little plantation in Jamaica that only harvests during the full moon.”
Carlo blinks at me, clearly trying to process my enthusiasm. There’s something in his expression that looks almost worried, but that’s probably just lingering wedding nerves. All new husbands feel a bit overwhelmed at first.
“Ginni, we should talk about...”
“And then,” I continue, spinning around to face him with my arms spread wide like I’m embracing the whole world, “we need to plan our proper honeymoon! I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I have the most incredible ideas. The Maldives, obviously, but not just any resort. I found this private island that you can rent entirely for yourselves. Just imagine, Carlo, our own little paradise where we can walk on the beach naked and make love under the stars without a care in the world.”
I hurry to the dresser and start pulling out the travel brochures I’ve been collecting for months, my movements quick and excited. Glossy magazines full of crystal-clear water and white sand beaches, luxury resorts that only special people like Carlo can afford. I spread them across the bed like a feast, eachone more beautiful than the last, creating a rainbow of tropical paradise across the white sheets.
“Look at this one,” I gush, pointing to a stunning overwater bungalow that looks like something from a dream. “Private butler, infinity pool, direct access to the lagoon where we can swim with tropical fish. And this one has a spa where they do couples massages with oils made from rare tropical flowers that only bloom once every seven years. We could spend weeks there, just the two of us, learning every inch of each other’s bodies.”
The images blur together in my mind, becoming one perfect fantasy of endless blue skies and Carlo’s hands on my sun-warmed skin. I can almost feel the ocean breeze, taste the salt air, hear the gentle lapping of waves against our private dock.
“Sweetheart,” Carlo says softly, reaching for my hand with movements that are careful and deliberate, so elegant that the chains barely rattle. “Can we please slow down for a moment and...”
But I’m already moving on to the next exciting topic, my mind racing ahead like a thoroughbred at the starting gate. There’s so much to plan, so much to organize, so many beautiful dreams to make reality.
“Oh, and we absolutely must discuss our children! I’ve been thinking about names all morning. For boys, I quite like Alessandro or perhaps Matteo. Strong, classic Italian names that will suit them whether they’re artistic like me or formidable like you. They’ll grow up bilingual, of course, and I’ll make sure they appreciate culture and beauty from the very beginning.”
I grab a notebook from the nightstand, one I’ve been keeping for years with lists and plans and dreams carefully organized by topic. The pages flutter as I flip through them, showing Carlo all the careful planning I’ve done, years of preparation for exactly this moment.
“For girls, I’m thinking Isabella or Sofia. Elegant names for elegant daughters who will grow up knowing they’re loved and valued for exactly who they are. And we’ll need to start thinking about schools, won’t we? I know it’s early, but the best nurseries have waiting lists that are years long. I’ve already put our names down at several, actually. Just to be safe.”
Carlo’s eyes widen slightly, something that might be alarm flickering across his features. “You’ve put our names down at nurseries?”
“Of course!” I beam at him, delighted that he’s showing interest in the practical details. “I believe in being prepared. The Montessori school in Chelsea has an excellent reputation for fostering creativity while maintaining proper nurturing. And there’s a lovely bilingual program in Kensington that would be perfect for raising properly cultured children. They’ll speak Italian and English flawlessly, maybe French too if we hire the right nanny.”
I can see it all so clearly in my mind, like watching a movie of our perfect future. Our beautiful children playing in manicured gardens while we watch from a sun-drenched terrace, sipping coffee and planning family holidays to Tuscany. Christmas mornings with perfectly wrapped presents under an enormous tree, birthday parties with all the right people, school plays where our talented offspring shine brighter than all the other children.
“And we’ll need a bigger place, obviously,” I continue, the ideas flowing out of me like water from a burst dam, each one more exciting than the last. “This basement is lovely for this phase of our honeymoon, but it’s not suitable for raising a family. I’ve been looking at houses in Hampstead and Primrose Hill. Somewhere with a proper garden where the children can play, and enough bedrooms for guests when your business associates come to dinner.”
I grab my laptop and start pulling up property websites, showing Carlo the listings I’ve been bookmarking for months. Grand Victorian houses with period features and modern amenities, elegant Georgian terraces with private gardens, contemporary mansions that scream success and sophistication.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” I add quickly, not wanting him to think I don’t appreciate what he’s already accomplished. “Your current house is absolutely magnificent. That beautiful place in Mayfair with the stunning kitchen and the garden that looks like something from a magazine. I’ve always admired it. It’s exactly the kind of home that shows how far you’ve come.”
“But darling,” I continue, turning back to the laptop screen with renewed enthusiasm, “our new life together should begin in a new home, don’t you think? A fresh start for our fresh beginning. Somewhere we choose together, somewhere that’s ours from the very first moment. We can pick out every paint color, every piece of furniture, every beautiful detail together.”
“This one is my favorite,” I say, pointing to a stunning white villa with floor-to-ceiling windows and a swimming pool that looks like it belongs in a luxury resort. “Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a wine cellar for your collection, and the most divine kitchen I’ve ever seen. The estate agent says it has the best natural light in all of North London, and just look at that garden. Perfect for children to play in, with enough space for a proper vegetable plot and maybe even a greenhouse.”
Carlo is watching me with increasing concern, his dark eyes tracking my movements as I flit from topic to topic like a butterfly in a garden full of the most beautiful flowers. But that’s just because he’s not used to having someone who plans ahead so thoroughly.
“Ginni,” he says gently, his voice carrying undertones I can’t quite identify, “I think we should...”
