But I can’t stop. This has been a long time coming. “So if you claim you weren’t hiding,” I press on, “why tell me now and not eighteen months ago? Why leave me to find out the way I did?”
Giovanni doesn’t flinch.
Not even a fraction.
“Because we were married,” he says simply. “Because we were legally bound, you were mine, and there was no risk of you running.” His mouth twists. “And yes, I see how the irony lands like a slap to both of us.”
“I believed,” he continues evenly, “that you were strong enough to withstand the truth of me. Strong enough to understand that the world your father was destroyed by is not survived by softness or apologies.”
“So you found out you were wrong,” I snap. “That I felt, feel, very strongly about this. So why do you want to prolong it? Why don’t we both admit we made a mistake and call it a day?”
For the first time since this conversation began, something lethal lights in his eyes. And it comes with a finality that makes the hairs on my nape stand and quiver.
“That’s where you’re wrong,bellezza,” Giovanni says quietly. “How you feel about it doesn’t matter.”
My breath stutters. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
Then he smiles without mirth or teasing. A smile that terrifies as well as mesmerises in its dangerous beauty and deadly promise.
“There’s no prolonging anything,” he goes on. “Because nothing has changed. You’re still my wife. And I am still your husband. We made vows.” He pauses, watching my face carefully. Something sharp and unreadable passes through his eyes. “But you keep talking about divorce,” he adds lightly. “So let me make something clear.”
My pulse stutters, and I know deep in my bones that I will not welcome what he’s about to say next. Not one little bit.
“There will be no divorce,” Giovanni continues calmly. “You are coming back. And we are staying married.”
My breath catches. “You don’t get to decide that alone,” I say hoarsely. “And you definitely don’t get to decide what I do or do not want.”
He tilts his head, then he drops his hand, and I’ll be eternally furious with myself for wishing his touch back.
His hand slides into his pocket, he steps back, and just like that, the chill in the room returns. “Then I suppose you’ll have to convince me otherwise.”
There is no humour left in him now.
Only certainty.
I turnand leave the living room, and Giovanni doesn’t stop me.
My steps quicken when I hit the hallway.
I don’t run, I’ve done enough of that, thanks, but my body betrays me before my pride can catch up because I want to get away from this insane temptation of being around him right now.
And also because I want something a fraction more.
The smell hits first, pulling me in one direction.
Garlic, butter, something rich and slow-simmered. A warmth that coils through the house and slides straight into my stomach.
Hunger I’ve been ignoring all day rears its head violently.
I follow it like a drooling fool, drifting down a wide corridor into a stunning kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine shoot, with white marble, copper pans and sunlight slanting through tall windows throwing everything into gorgeous relief.
And there, at the island, stands a woman in her fifties with silver hair tied neatly back, stirring something in a pan with professional calm.
She glances up, eyes kind and curious. “You must be Lucia,” she says warmly. “I’m Caterina,SignorDragoni’s personal chef.”
Of course she is.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly unsure of myself in a way only Giovanni ever makes me feel. There must be an infestation going around. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” I turn to leave but her voice stops me.
