Chapter 9
Alessio
"Thank you for meeting with me."
I shook hands with Harold, the owner of a small hotel in Wimbledon, which, unfortunately, was losing its shine as fast as it was losing its customer base.
I only agreed to the meeting as a favour to Damon.
Harold was an old family friend, and he'd promised to ask me to take a look at his business and offer advice.
"What do you think?" Damon asked. He'd called while I was still in the lobby.
"It has potential. There's a large peak over June and July, which is not surprising during Wimbledon tennis.
But it's still not as high as I'd expect for a large event.
There's been a steady decline over the last ten years, and it's not surprising.
Public transport in London is excellent, and options for accommodation are endless.
People prefer to stay closer to central London and tube in rather than stay somewhere where, quite frankly, there's not much to do.
Not when there are cheaper options around. No wonder they're bleeding money."
The only option was to sell or lower their prices while they renovate each room to bring it into this decade.
Private holiday homes were waning due to council-imposed restrictions and valid complaints about long-term rental shortages.
He needed to take advantage of the dip in the market to service clients who wanted a more homely feel at a competitive price.
I also suggested that he focus on their restaurant and bar, as it could bring in extra income for lunch and dinner.
When I surveyed the hotel entrance, there was nothing to suggest they even served food, let alone had a decent-size bar inside.
Damon's relieved sigh came down the line. "Thank you for doing this. I advised him many times to sell, but the hotel has been in his family for years. He doesn't want to let it go."
I dug my hands into my pockets as I turned my body and leaned against the check-in desk. The receptionist had been trying her best to garner my attention with a sultry smile, so I turned my back to dissuade any notions she might have of me being interested.
"I can understand that," I remarked. After all, if it hadn't been for a hotel legacy wanting to remain in the family name, I would not currently be a married man.
I rubbed at my chest, just below my heart.
"Well, thanks anyway. I'll let you get back to your day. Tell Millie I said hi. I haven't seen her in a while."
A crack of discomfort cleaved through me at the mention of my wife. "Yeah. I've been busy. She's been busy. With the property acquisition in Scotland and her studies, it's hard to find the time."
"But you are finding time, right?"
"Of course," I dismissed. "Listen, I need to call my driver to collect me. I'll talk to you later."
I pocketed my phone before he could press me for more info.
"Will that be all, Mr Ferrante?"
I turned to the overly attentive receptionist, who suddenly had a few buttons missing on her blouse.
"Yes, thank you."
I whirled around, my phone in hand, ready to message my driver, when a figure walking through the glass doors caught my eye.
I froze, phone in mid-air, as my gaze tracked her movements across the foyer.
She had blonde hair with a Louis Vuitton scarf covering her head and tied below her chin.
She was wearing dark glasses, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt.
Her head was down, and she seemed to be moving quickly across the hall, aiming directly for the row of lifts.
She stabbed the button a few times before the doors slid open.
Turn around, turn around.
But instead, she slipped inside and stabbed a few more buttons. With her head still down, the metal doors closed shut, taking her from my vision. But not before I caught sight of a distinctive red bag.
I didn't move. I couldn't. I was unsure why this woman caught my attention, but something about the way she moved and carried herself reminded me of Millie.
But it couldn't be her. Despite recognising a disguise when I saw one, that didn't mean the woman attempting to go incognito was my wife.
What would she even be doing here, in Wimbledon?
And in a hotel, no less? I owned multiple hotels; hell, she owned them too.
If she needed a room for…whatever, because at the moment I could not conjure up one reason why she would, then she had her pick of more than a few.
And that red bag I saw? I'm sure the sales assistant lied when she told me it was a limited-edition Birkin.
My heart started to burn again, and I wondered if I was having some sort of stroke.
No. I was being stupid. It wasn't her. I shook my head, a small smile of amusement curving my mouth as I strolled towards the exit. I mean, to even consider that Millie would disguise herself to come to a hotel that had no connection to her? Preposterous!
The cold air hit my face as I paused outside the hotel. Every intuitive cell in my body was screaming at me, and I found myself unable to move—I physically could not force my foot in front of the other.
A quiet panic clawed at me, and I suddenly found it hard to breathe.
With a muttered curse, I swung around and strode back into the hotel lobby.
Harold was just stepping out of his office as I was approaching the front desk.
"Mr Ferrante." He was flustered. "Is everything okay? Did you forget something?"
I flashed him a lazy smile despite the quickening panic in my heart.
"Everything's fine, thank you. I actually have a meeting nearby soon, so instead of heading back to my office, I was hoping to pitch a spot here to catch up on work until then."
Harold was all too happy to accommodate me. When I turned down a seat at his restaurant, preferring to sit in the lobby—facing the lifts—he didn't bat an eye.
So that's where I sat…for three agonising hours.
I couldn't say exactly what I worked on; everything blurred and shifted on my screen until I gave up all pretence of working.
My sharp gaze remained on the group of lifts, my stomach dropping every time it opened.
I talked myself in and out of the idea that that woman was Millie, but when my calls and texts went unanswered, it further fuelled the dread that refused to abate.
It had just ticked over three hours when the lift doors opened for the eleventh time since I'd been sitting here.
A young blond man stepped out, and my head dipped down before whipping up again.
He looked vaguely familiar. It wasn't until he swaggered close to me, with an expression wrapped in cockiness, that I finally placed his identity.
He was the same boy I spied chatting to Millie outside The Pig's Head when I'd come to collect her. Dio, that was months ago.
Twenty minutes after he left, the lift doors opened again. This time, there was no mistaking who the woman was. She had shed the blonde wig and glasses, but this time had the scarf wrapped around her neck. She wore the same blue jeans and white T-shirt.
And a limited-edition, red Birkin bag.
"Millie."
My wife's name was ripped from my throat as I slowly rose. My body felt weird. Like I was having an out-of-body experience. A dream wrapped into a nightmare.
The look on her face said it all.
"Alessio?" Millie's shocked voice quivered, and her eyes widened before darting around in clear alarm. "Wh-what are you doing here?" She clutched her red bag against her chest, her face ashen.
"I had a meeting here."
Her small hand went to her throat, and I narrowed in on her ringless fingers. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.
"I—"
"Not here," I gritted out, well aware that nosey eyes could be watching. "In the car."
Her eyes dropped from mine, and she slid ahead of me, her movements quick and sharp. My long legs caught up with her, and I surged ahead to open our chauffeur-driven car. Her eyes refused to meet mine as she ducked in.
I slammed the door shut behind me, and her tiny frame flinched. She was still clutching her bag tightly, her knuckles white.
I couldn't look at her. My whole body vibrated with rage, and it seeped into the quiet of the vehicle. I stared at her profile, unable to form the words that tore at my soul.
Why?
How long?
"What were you doing there?" My voice sounded foreign to my ears.
"I volunteer at an animal shelter down the road."
My fingers rolled into fists. "That's not what I meant."
Her lips tightened until a tic thrummed in her jaw. She didn't respond.
"Tell me you didn't sleep with him." I could hear the heavy cloak of jealousy in my tone. It rolled around me, spreading wide until it infected my body, robbing me of my ability to think or speak.
She rolled her lips in, still not looking at me. The silence stretched between us as I waited on bated breath.
Finally, in a small voice, she replied, "Do you really want to know the answer to that?"
Her response cut me deep, and the breath I'd been holding flew out of me like a raging bull.
With a shaky hand, I yanked open the console beside me and took out a shot glass and a miniature bottle of whisky.
I threw my head back, letting the alcohol burn its way down my throat.
I took another shot when the first failed to take away the image of my wife walking out of, what was now confirmed, a sordid dalliance with some young buck.
I thought of his smug expression as he crossed the foyer; his mouth softened in a curve of satisfaction.
Ugly images of rumpled hotel sheets and writhing bodies flooded my mind, and I tossed the shot glass and alcohol back into the console before slamming the lid shut.
I ran a jerky hand through my hair in a futile attempt to scrub this whole day from my memories.
The air hung heavy and stifling around us as the car moved through the streets, heading back to my office. There was no way I could work now, but I couldn't form the words to order the car around.
"I was discreet."
My head jerked up to Millie. Her voice was so soft I wouldn't have heard her if not for the tense silence that amplified the smallest sound. Her face was still tilted towards the window, her hands tightly clasped together in her lap.
"What was that?" I challenged, daring her to look at me.
And when she did, I was infuriated because how dare she look at me with eyes brimming in quiet resentment and anger?
She lifted her chin. "I was discreet," she repeated. "A bloody lot more than you."
I opened my mouth to respond, but she wasn't done. "I disguised myself. I chose someone you wouldn't bump into. I stayed well away from any hotel associated with you." Her green eyes flashed as her voice became progressively louder. "Can you say the same?" she demanded.
"You chose a woman in our social circle, and who knows how many I've unknowingly bumped into? And tell me," she continued, her voice tight with controlled fury. "Did you even have the decency not to use one of your hotels?"
Red scored my cheeks.
"I didn't think so."
"Millie—"
"Just drop me off at home," she stiffly said, her face turning once more to the moving scenery. "Go back to your work and your women."