Page 124

He dropped subtle, barbed remarks about my weight or features, or snapped at Raff over the smallest imperfection until my son dreaded being in the same room as him.

Looking back, I realized how much energy I wasted pretending to be happy with Max.

How much pain had I buried to tune out his shallow self-absorption?

I met the real estate agent early the next morning and told her to list the property right away.

By 10:30 a.m. I boarded my flight to Milan, my stomach twisting with nerves.

I landed at 12:30, giving myself plenty of time for my 2:30 p.m. appointment.

My English-speaking Italian lawyer, Cassio Delgado, met me on the stone steps of the registry office and guided me through the crowd while we waited for my husband.

Max made a flamboyant entrance, exuding the aura of the ultimate playboy, with a devil-may-care touch of spezzatura style.

He wore a tailored Brioni linen suit, custom Gucci loafers, and a Borsalino fedora tilted at an angle.

‘Ana, cara,’ he said, stepping forward with fake warmth.

He bent down to plant a showy kiss on my cheek, but I pulled away.

He just shrugged, adjusting his designer sunglasses without a trace of shame.

Fuck him.

Cassio brought us into the office to finalize our divorce before the Civil Registrar, the fastest option under Italian law.

The process meant signing the papers right in front of the official, since we had no shared kids or property issues to fight over.

The fee was tiny, and our signatures guaranteed a complete separation in thirty days.

As the ink dried, Massimo turned and hugged me.

I tamped down the urge to recoil and gave him a cold glare instead.

He acted casual, almost carefree, as if we hadn’t just signed away our marriage in a soulless government room.

‘Take care, Ana,’ he said in a smooth voice, stepping out into the Milanese sun. ‘Arrivederci!’

He sauntered off with a pep in his step, passing two women on the sidewalk who gasped when they recognized him.

He flashed them a charming grin and stepped forward to kiss their hands as they lost their minds.

They were welcome to him and his shitshow, I thought as I slipped into a cab and pulled away from the man and the life I once revered.

That evening, I flew back to London, keen to finish packing the remaining boxes.

I packed up the art on the walls, the linen, and the bedding, leaving the bulkier furniture, the kitchen, and the bathroom cupboards for the movers.

The next day, the hired moving crew was due to come in and empty the place to get it ready for staging.

By midnight, I only had my sofa in the living room to sleep on, with one blanket and a pillow.

Sitting with my legs crossed, I ate a late-night delivery of cold Thai beef noodle salad and watched a movie on my iPad till my phone vibrated on the lounge beside me.

I smiled as Deacon’s name flashed on the screen, my heart jolting as I swiped the display.

‘Hey malkia,’ he rasped, his timbre sounding through the speakers. ‘How did it go in Milan?’