Chapter 14
Alessio
Istared at the open text thread, willing myself to actually send something this time.
How's your day going?
No. Delete. That message was too casual. Too flippant and out of the blue after months of tense silence and stilted, polite sentences.
Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?
I frowned before quickly checking our shared calendar. She hadn't updated her schedule for the New Year, so I had no clue how many classes she had today. The only way I knew she'd left the house at all today was because I ordered her driver, Gordon, to update me on her every movement.
He hadn't questioned my demand; his widened eyes were his only tell that the order was a little out of the ordinary. Okay, maybe a little unhinged. Why would a husband suddenly want to know every single detail of his wife's day?
Since I was kept in the dark about her schedule—on purpose—I didn't bother asking her to dinner. I doubted she wanted to spend any time alone with me anyway, and would likely stay back in class to avoid my presence.
Would he be there with her if she did?
With a growl, I threw my phone aside, and my chair rolled away from me as I stood. Frustration lanced through me as I threaded my fingers at the back of my head. I strode to the large window, which offered a panoramic view of London.
What the hell was I doing?
This…brooding wasn't like me. I didn't overanalyse my actions or feel guilty for words I said or behaviour that affected others. I hadn't arrived at where I was—a successful and ruthless businessman, feared and adored by admirers and competitors alike—by considering other people's feelings.
Until Millie.
Until my wife.
From the moment I met her—when I first saw her photo—I felt my world shift. I knew then that my life would never be the same, and I should've bloody stopped it before it became more. Before I married her and made her utterly miserable.
But my possessive side, the side that coveted something for the first time that wasn't mine, couldn't walk away. In a move so unlike me, I married her. And I hadn't been the same since.
And now here we were…at an impasse that I had no idea how to traverse. Millie was mad at me, and perhaps rightly so.
But god damnit, I'd been trying. I told her that I wouldn't take on another mistress, I'd been carving out space for her wants and needs, I'd bought her anything her little heart desired and more.
I didn't complain when she started university—even when the limited time we had together was further cut in half.
And Archie…bloody hell, I was never going to fire and kick out his parents. At least, I would like to think that I wouldn't have. It was a moot point anyway since Millie had stopped seeing him.
True, she forced my hand to intervene, but I had no choice. I had to threaten her tender heart if it meant it wouldn't belong to another. Unlike Millie, I could separate sex and love. After all, I'd gone this long having passionate and wild sex with Millie, and I hadn't lost my head over her.
The other women, as regrettable as they were, were nothing more than habit. A distraction that I never thought twice about, during or after.
Millie couldn't handle sleeping with me and another.
She was still a virgin at eighteen, and she confessed that she likely would've stayed that way until she met someone she cared about.
Some poor sap would fall for her or take advantage of her good nature, and she'd have a proper fuck up on her hands.
I knew how to handle women's delicate tempers when it came to sex and attachment.
They could get so emotional and jealous.
I wanted to avoid Millie falling into the same trap.
She was married to me, cared for me, and trusted me.
So she should trust my judgement that putting a stop to Archie was for her own good.
Although, as I examined the remains of my strained marriage, I wondered whether this emotional upheaval was worth it.
Millie clearly wasn't happy, and I was growing increasingly frustrated by how things were between us. Frustrated and impatient. Where had my easy-going wife gone?
Perhaps it was best to let her go, to put an end to our marriage.
I could check with Charles to see whether he wanted to renegotiate our deal.
Millie was clearly miserable, and Charles had previously expressed guilt over his daughter marrying to strengthen his business interests.
The last thing I wanted was to keep Millie in a marriage she didn't want to be in.
Yes. It was best to let her go.
I rubbed at my chest, frowning at the tightness that knotted there.
What was I eating that was giving me such terrible heartburn?
I'd been feeling this tightness and breathlessness in my chest for weeks now.
It was flaring up again and taking antacids didn't help.
I made a mental note to schedule a complete physical with my personal doctor when I had a free day.
Meanwhile, I needed to sort out a separation plan.
Of course, I knew plenty of divorce solicitors, so there was no issue in obtaining one.
We practically had them on retainer at this point.
This was a delicate matter that needed the utmost discretion and decorum.
Mille and I were both adults, unused to displays of heated arguments and emotions that got the better of us.
We could both walk away relatively unscathed and unaffected.
I plucked up my phone, my finger flicking through my contacts to find the number I was after.
My finger lingered over Gareth Dickinson's name, our UK solicitor.
He had represented a few members of our board with their divorces, and my dear old father had slid me his number a few years ago.
I never thought that I would be utilising it.
My finger hovered over the call button as my hand rubbed against my chest, soothing the gnawing ache that seemed to grow tighter.
Just as I was about to take the leap, my phone rang in my hand, startling me.
Why the hell was Gordon calling me? I paid him extra to keep track of Millie, for reasons I did not want to think about, but he never called me in the middle of the day.
I only advised him to call me if…
The blood drained from my face, my chest twisting until my breath was choppy and strained. I fumbled to accept the call before it dropped out.
"What is it? What's happened?"
"Mr Ferrante. It's Gordon."
I made a sound of impatience. "Yes, yes, I know. What happened? Where is she?"
"Mrs Ferrante is at the Gosford Ocean Hotel. She said—"
"She's what?"
His startled silence came through loudly. "Err…she's at the Gosford Ocean Hotel. She—"
The breath left my lungs in a loud whoosh, and whatever he said sounded like words underwater.
"How long has she been there?"
With a shaky hand, I pulled at my tie, loosening the knot that threatened to strangle me.
"Um…about thirty minutes, sir. But—"
I didn't wait for him to finish. Thirty minutes? A lot could happen within that time, and I didn't want to waste it on the phone. He should've called me immediately, but I'd deal with him later.
I grabbed my phone and fled from my office, dialling my driver as I went. My PA shot upright when he saw my rushed approach. He may have said something to me, but I couldn't say what it was. Blood was rushing in my ears, and I had tunnel vision that was only focused on one thing.
Getting to my wife. No matter what scene I would walk into.
Cold air whipped my face as I exited the building, but I barely felt the chill. I caught sight of my driver and immediately climbed in, slamming the door with a sharp pull.
"Gosford Ocean Hotel." My voice sounded foreign to my own ears. Raspy and harsh. "As fast as you can. It's urgent."
In fact, I couldn't think of a single damn thing more urgent than this.
Not the multimillion-pound acquisition deal last year, not Charles' hotels that I'd craved to fold into my portfolio, not the important meeting I had booked a month ago that was to take place in an hour…
nothing. As soon as Gordon uttered those words—that my wife was at a hotel—nothing ceased to matter.
My throat felt dry, and the pain in my chest was spreading to my stomach.
I yanked open the drinks compartment, my hand hovering over the whisky bottle.
I was tempted to drown my fear in spirits, to dull the thump of anxiety that was spreading through me.
But in the end, I bypassed the booze and opted for the small bottle of water instead. I needed a clear head to do this.
My hands drummed against my thigh as I watched the scenery fly by. I debated calling Millie, but I didn't want to tip her off that I knew what she was up to. I didn't want her to disappear on me.
But also, if I called her and she didn't answer—if she was too busy…
That clawing feeling was climbing up my throat again, and I quickly doused it with the cool water.
Gosford Ocean Hotel. What kind of stupid name was that? It wasn't even near the bloody ocean. Once I dealt with my wife, I would buy the hotel and raze it to the ground.
Twenty torturous minutes later, the car pulled up to the hotel, and I was out of the door before it barely stopped. I stormed through the lobby, my face like thunder.
"My wife, Mille Ferrante, is in one of your rooms. I need a key."
I didn't care how I sounded, I didn't care that it was against hotel protocol to demand entrance to a room—even if I was her husband. The way I was feeling right now, I'd go from floor to floor, pounding on each door until I found her. They were lucky I was giving them this courtesy.
To my surprise, the hapless receptionist smiled brightly at me. "Of course, Mr Ferrante." She plucked a key card from a drawer and entered it into her system before swiping. "Here you go. Enjoy your stay."
I snatched the card and strode to the set of lifts before she changed her mind. Her incompetence was my win.