“Yes,Signora.”
“Of course, Mrs. Dragoni.”
“Whatever pleases you, ma’am.”
“Shall we inform your husband?”
The first time it happens, I correct them.
The second time, I stiffen and let it pass.
By the third day, the word husband settles into my chest like a weight I can no longer pretend I don’t feel.
And while I know full well I’m being managed, the only person I take my disgruntlement out on is Giovanni, who looks at me as if daring me to protest the obscene luxury and endless pampering.
I try to mount a subtle rebellion only to find out my island suitcase never made it onto the plane.Shocker.
With only the pair of cheap, dirty trainers and the island dress I wore on the plane now the only reminder of my time on Antigua, I greet this news with a hollow, humourless laugh as I stand barefoot in the dressing room on my second morning back, staring at a closet that looks like it was curated by Milan itself, while a handful of stylists I didn’t invite and barely tolerate flit around me, flashing designer labels.
Prada. Dolce & Gabbana. Versace. Bottega Veneta. Valentino.
Silk blouses in jewel tones, tailored trousers that whisper instead of wrinkle. Dresses that cling and slash and drape like they were designed with a single purpose: to remind me exactly whose world I’m standing in.
“Not a cotton sundress in sight, am I right?” I say to no one in particular.
“Snarky commentary?” Giovanni asks mildly from the doorway, phone pressed to his ear as he listens to someone speaking urgently in Sicilian.
“I assume my things are… delayed,” I say dryly.
“If by delayed you mean lit on fire with the nearest incendiary device to hand, then sure.”
“They were my things, Giovanni.”
“They were unnecessary. Cheap crap that was an affront to your beautiful body.”
I turn to glare at him, even as my insides light up at the gruff, unabashed observation, tossed out without once looking up from his call.
“Unnecessary,” he repeats calmly, then switches languages mid-sentence, German this time, his tone dropping into something darkly appreciative when he looks up at last and his gaze flicks over my body.
I feel it like a physical touch, fighting the urge to squirm when my skin prickles. “What did you just say?” I demand.
He ends the call and smiles faintly. “Nothing you need translated.”
I narrow my eyes and pull out my phone, typing fast. “Repeat it,” I dare him.
With a dark gleam in his eye and one thick shoulder braced in the doorway, he does.
A second later I wish he hadn’t when Siri’s voice fills the room, bright and merciless, translating his words aloud for the stylists hovering nearby.
If my wife keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to fuck her senseless before dinner.
The room freezes.
Someone drops a hanger.
My face goes nuclear. “You… you didn’t just say that!” I protest hotly.
Giovanni merely shrugs and goes back to his phone as if he hasn’t just detonated a bomb.
