The thought makes me smile.
When I arrive at the building, security waves me through without issue—one of the perks of being on the approved list. I take the elevator up to Lorenzo’s floor, balancing the takeout bags as the doors slide open. His office door is closed, so I knock once and push it open.
“I brought lunch, and I’m not taking no for—”
I stop mid-sentence. Lorenzo isn’t there.
Instead, Leonardo Rossi sits behind his son’s desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviews a stack of documents. He looks up at my entrance, and his face breaks into a warm smile.
“Fiona, cara! What a lovely surprise.” He rises from the chair, coming around the desk to greet me. “Lorenzo told me you’re helping out on a project. Thank you for that.”
“It’s no problem,” I say, trying to keep my voice even as I glance around the office. “I’m always happy to help. I, um, brought lunch for Lorenzo. Is he around?”
Leonardo’s expression shifts to something apologetic. “Ah, I’m afraid you just missed him. He’s out on a lunch date.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “Lunch date?”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? I booked a table at Carbone’s,” Leonardo says, utterly oblivious to the way my heart has just cracked down the middle. “Estella has been wanting to introduce him to her niece for months now. With all his brothers married, Lorenzo is the only one left. Estella thought Natalie would be perfect for him, and sometimes a parent has to take matters into his own hands, yes?” He chuckles warmly. “Lorenzo didn’t want to disappoint his stepmother, so he agreed to one lunch. But hopefully it will turn into more. Natalie is a sweet girl. Perfect for a busy man like my son.”
Christ.
“Oh,” I manage through the lump in my throat. The takeout bags feel impossibly heavy in my hands.
“I apologize, cara. If he had known you were coming, I am sure he would have told you.” Leonardo gestures to the food.“But please, don’t let it go to waste. You’re welcome to eat here, or I can have someone put it in the refrigerator for Lorenzo when he returns.”
“No, that’s—that’s fine.” I take a step back toward the door. “I just remembered I have something I need to take care of at home. Work thing. Can’t wait.”
Leonardo’s brow furrows with concern. “Are you alright, Fiona? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass on my face. “Just tired. Please don’t mention I stopped by. I don’t want Lorenzo to feel bad about missing lunch. It’s not a big deal.”
“If you’re sure, cara.”
“I’m sure. It was good to see you, Mr. Rossi.”
I’m out the door before he can respond, my legs carrying me to the elevator on autopilot. The doors close and I slump against the wall, the takeout bags sliding from my fingers to the floor.
A lunch date. He’s on a lunch date.
.
Christ, I can still feel him inside me. My body is raw with aches from our lovemaking last night, and not even twelve hours later, he's out with another woman?
No, Leonardo is mistaken. He has to be.
By the time I get home, my shock has hardened into something colder. I dump the takeout on the counter—I’ve lost my appetite—and march to my laptop. My fingers fly over the keys as I bring up Carbone’s security system, and there isn’t one shred of guilt in me as I hack into the camera feed. My face ispractically pressed to the screen as I gain access and scan the full restaurant. Of course, it’s full. It’s a popular spot, expensive, but the food is worth every penny.
My breath hitches as I watch a man walk into the restaurant, so I zoom in on his face, but there is no mistaking that raven black hair and that perfect jawline. I try to console myself with the fact that he came in alone, but then he walks to a chair by the window and…there she is.
My breath hitches as I watch Lorenzo walk into the restaurant, so I zoom in on his face, but there is no mistaking that raven black hair and that perfect jawline. He approaches a table by the window where a woman is already seated. She’s beautiful—dark hair, elegant dress, bright smile as she sees him. They sit across from each other.
I should stop watching. I should close the laptop and walk away. But I can’t.
I watch them talk, torturing myself with every smile she gives him, every gesture of her hands. About fifteen minutes in, something shifts. The woman pulls out her phone, types something, then looks back at Lorenzo with an expression I can’t quite read. He nods, says something that makes her laugh, and then—
She reaches across the table and takes his hand. Then she rises from her seat, leans in, and presses her lips to his cheek. The kiss lingers for a moment, her hand squeezing his, and when she pulls back, she’s beaming at him, and he returns her smile with one of his own.
The casual intimacy of it makes me sick to my stomach.
