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I pursed my lips, cut up at the angst she was about to endure at the shit news.
She must have sensed my unease because her smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed with concern.
‘D? What’s going on?’
‘There’s something you need to be aware of, beautiful,’ I rumbled, my voice dropping an octave as I sat on the edge of the mattress.
Her brow furrowed, sleepiness giving way to worry.
‘What?’
‘It’s Massimo. He’s all over the media and internet,’ I said, keeping my tone as level as possible. ‘It’s bad.’
She struggled to sit up, and I helped her, straightening her healing leg on the elevation pillow.
‘Max? Is he injured? Hurt? What happened?’
‘He’s not harmed from what I’ve read, but check your messages now,’ I replied.
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud.
I refused to be the voice that passed on the sordid news of her husband’s infidelity.
She stared at me, confusion written all over her face, then grabbed her phone from the table without a single word.
ANA
The expression on Deacon’s face was grave, which sent my heart racing.
I spotted the missed calls first, then a message from my sister.
Lucia: Read this now, woman.
She’d attached a link, and I tapped on it.
It led me to a gossip site.
The brightness of my iPhone screen burned my eyes as the images of Max and Francesca flooded my feed.
Of them kissing, holding each other, flagrantly in a tryst.
His betrayal ripped through me, leaving me queasy; nausea washing over me as the humiliation choked me.
I kept scrolling the news feeds as I scanned the comments in horror.
‘He’s having an affair… dam [sic].’
‘How long had it been going on for?’
‘Oh, my God! That Massimo Canelli AND Francesca Olivetti??? Is this real or a staged shoot to promote their new movie? If so, what a sick way to do it. [sic]’
On a post about Massimo being a married man, another user speculated about me:
‘I wonder what he’s telling his wife, ex-model Ana De Stella?’
The headlines kept coming as I scrolled.
One tabloid piece released a timeline of the affair.
