“You’re married. There is no divorce in your future. You want to live like this your whole life? Or do you want to have a semblance of a relationship with Alessia?”
“What’s wrong with how it’s going?” I demand, and then, when he gives me a flat, unimpressed look, I continue, “I’vebeen busy, you know that. I’ve been dealing with the merger. The board. The export renegotiations. Staffing. Debt structure. The?—”
“Basta!” he cuts me off. “Sell this shit to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do. You haven’t even consummated your marriage, so….”
“I didn’t know you were keeping such a close eye on my sex life,” I throw at him, feeling cornered.
I married Alessia for the CEO chair. I didn’t lie about that. She married me for a vineyard. We made our bargain cleanly and clearly.
Except—
The night after the wedding, when we were finally alone in the palazzo suite, she stood there in a simple dress, hair damp from the shower, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
And I felt something I hadn’t planned for.
Respect.
A sharp, inconvenient awareness that she was real. That she had been traded like property, and she had still shown up.
If I touched her, it wouldn’t be a contract anymore, it would be a claim—mine on her and hers on me.
I won’t take what I can’t honor.
I hear myself speak, and the honesty surprises me. “If we live together and sleep together, I can’t pretend it’s just business.”
His expression softens, surprise melting into something warmer.
“I’m not the man who touches his wife and then disappears for weeks,” I continue roughly. “If I make her mine, I have to be…someone else.”
Renzo’s eyes hold mine. “And is that such a bad thing? You know that Cesare is soon going to put pressure on you, as are your parents, for you to have a child.”
Cazzo! Fuck!ThatI am really not ready for.
Before I can answer, there’s a knock at the door.
It opens without waiting for my response.
Chiara steps in, looking very much like the antithesis of the woman Renzo and I have been discussing. She’s in a cream blouse, tailored trousers, hair swept back, lipstick that looks effortless, which I know is not. She’s curated, taken time to look exactly the way she does, and make the impression she’s making.
“We need to go over tonight’s guest list,” she says briskly, then stops when she feels the air in the room. Her gaze flicks to Renzo. “What did I interrupt?”
Renzo stands, smooth. “A necessary conversation.”
He walks out without looking at her again, leaving me alone with the woman Florence keeps photographing at my side.
Chiara closes the door behind her and turns. “So?”
“So…apparently, there is gossip about us.”
She laughs airily, unbothered. “Is there?”
“Yes. You know it, too. According to Renzo, it looks bad.”
She waves a hand, dismissing Renzo’s concerns. “You’re seen as a handsome Italian scion, and from a PR perspective, I can’t see the problem.”
“But”—I let out a long exhale—“maybe we want to be careful? My wife will be at the event tonight. Maybe you and I should keep our distance.”
A flash—hurt, anger, pride—passes across her face before she locks it down. Chiara has always been good at locking things down.
