Cesaro lets out a low laugh. “That sounds right.”
I try to match his humor, but it rings hollow.
Chicken pesto.
Tofu.
I’m agreeing to entrees and florals and venues while my chest feels carved out while the only woman I think about is wrappedin a quilt that isn’t hers, curled on a sofa she doesn’t belong to, trying to pretend I never touched her until the moment I get home to her.
Cesaro doesn’t say it, but I hear it in the pause that follows. He knows something is off. Maybe he feels the shift in me. So I force myself to play the part. The dutiful fiancé. The focused Don.
Even as I speak, every part of me is somewhere else.
With Elizabeth.
I say, “Fran’s wanting to get some kind of fancy bloodwork done on the baby so we know the gender.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Cesaro asks.
“I said the same thing.” My jaw tightens. “Her doctor agreed.”
He’s silent for a moment before saying, “That’s good.”
“Is there anything else?” I ask, reaching for the jacket draped over the chair. “I’m about to head home for the night.”
A loaded pause crackles through the line.
“How is Ms. Miller handling things?”
Annoyance flares immediately through me, sharp and defensive.Miss Miller. The name alone pisses me off because she should be Mrs. Conti.
“As well as can be expected,” I say, voice clipped.
“She’s young,” he answers, too lightly. “She’ll move on soon enough.”
His words grate at my fucking soul.
Young.
Move on.
Like she didn’t carve herself into my ribs every time she breathed my name.
I grip the phone hard enough that the plastic creaks.
“I did get an interesting call,” Cesaro continues, oblivious or deliberately pushing. “From Dr. Lars.”
My stomach goes cold.
“Oh?” The word feels like a lie sliding off my tongue.
“He mentioned that he would send another round of placebos to the penthouse.”
My pulse hammers until my ears ring.
“To replace for Ms. Miller.”
A razor’s edge cuts through my chest.
