2. The Private Lounge
Chapter Two
THE PRIVATE LOUNGE
Ethan catches up with me near the escalators.
He doesn’t touch me. He’s too aware of witnesses for that. But his voice comes low and hard behind me. “Are you out of your mind?”
I stop because running would make this feel like fear, and I’m not afraid. Not exactly. My body is shaking, but it isn’t fear doing all of it.
Some of it is rage arriving late.
“I’m not doing this here,” I say.
“You already did it here.” He forces the boarding pass into my hand until I take it.
“Because you put your coworker in first class and left your wife in economy.”
He glances around. A family with two teenagers passes, dragging luggage. A businessman talks into one earbud near a pillar. The world continues, completely indifferent to the fact that mine has tilted.
“You’re making this sound sordid,” he says.
I almost laugh, but it gets caught somewhere in my throat.
“Did I assign the seats?”
“It’s a corporate travel arrangement.”
“You changed it four days ago.”
His expression flickers. It’s barely noticeable, but I know his face. I know the half second before he invents something.
“I adjusted the booking because Willow and I have work to do.”
“So you keep saying.”
“It’s true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d overreact.”
The cruelty of that is so familiar, it almost slips past me. The problem is never the thing he does. The problem is always my reaction to the thing he does.
Willow stops a careful distance away, close enough to be included, but far enough to pretend she isn’t. Her boarding pass is visible between her fingers. First class. 3B.
“Sophie,” she says softly. “I really am sorry. I told Ethan this might look bad.”
I turn my head toward her. “Did you?”
Her eyes widen. “Of course.”
“And yet you kept the seat.”
Color touches her cheeks. She looks at Ethan, and that’s when I see it.
Not guilt. Coordination.
Their eyes meet for less than a second, but the look has history in it. A private language. A shared inconvenience. They’re not two coworkers caught in an awkward travel mistake. They’re two people waiting for me to step back into the role they’ve assigned me.
Wife. Obstacle. Fool.
My stomach tightens. “How long?” I ask.
Ethan blinks. “What?”
“How long has this been going on?”
Willow’s lips part.
Ethan’s face hardens. “That’s enough.”
“No. I think enough was when you put her beside you and expected me to sit in the back like luggage.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping. “You need to calm down before you embarrass both of us.”
“I’m not embarrassed for me anymore.”
That surprises him. I see it in the way his eyes narrow.
Behind him, another voice says, “Ethan.”
One word. Smooth, accented, unhurried.
Ethan goes still.
Matteo Ruggiero stands several feet away in a charcoal suit that looks less like clothing and more like it has agreed to cooperate with him personally.
He’s tall, dark-haired, and impossibly composed, with warm olive skin and eyes that seem to notice everything without needing to announce it.
I’ve met him twice before, both times at company events where Ethan got louder after his second drink and I quietly redirected conversations before they turned sour.
Matteo remembered my name both times, and he remembers it now.
“Sophie,” he says, and the way he says it is not a question or a performance. It’s recognition. “Are you all right?”
The simple courtesy of the question nearly unravels me.
“I’m deciding,” I say.
Something moves across his face, and it’s not pity. His gaze shifts to Ethan, then to Willow’s hand, which has finally dropped from Ethan’s sleeve.
“There appears to be a problem,” Matteo says.
Ethan recovers enough to smile. It’s the good smile, the one he uses for clients. “Minor misunderstanding. Travel logistics. Sophie’s tired.”
“I’m standing right here,” I say.
Matteo’s eyes stay on Ethan. “Yes. She is.”
Willow looks suddenly less pleased with the situation.
“Mr. Ruggiero,” she says. “We don’t want to delay boarding.”
“I’m not boarding your flight,” Matteo says.
Ethan’s smile falters. “You aren’t?”
“My schedule changed.” Matteo turns to me. “There’s a private lounge nearby. It’s quieter. You’re welcome to sit there while you decide your next step.”
Ethan’s eyes sharpen. “That isn’t necessary.”
Matteo doesn’t look at him. “Sophie can decide what’s necessary.”
No one has spoken to Ethan that way in front of me in years. Maybe ever.
I grip my carry-on handle. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
Ethan reaches for my elbow. “Sophie.”
I move before his fingers can touch me. Matteo’s attention cuts to the gesture, and Ethan’s hand drops.
“I’ll call you,” Ethan says through his teeth.
Matteo gestures toward a corridor. “This way.”
I walk beside him through security, then past shops full of perfume and watches and the kind of scarves Willow wears like punctuation.
I expect Matteo to ask questions immediately, but he doesn’t.
He gives me silence, and I realize how rare that is.
Ethan fills silence with instructions, corrections, and explanations of why I’ve misunderstood him. Matteo lets me have my own thoughts.
The private lounge sits behind a discreet door, guarded by a woman who greets Matteo in Italian and looks at me without curiosity.
Inside, everything is soft light, low seating, fresh flowers, and windows facing a quieter part of the tarmac.
A silver coffee service gleams on a sideboard.
A bowl of oranges sits beside folded linen napkins.
It should feel intimidating, but right now, it just feels like a place where no one is allowed to shout.
Matteo guides me to a chair but doesn’t hover over me. “Coffee? Water? Something stronger?”
“Water,” I say, then add, “Please.”
He pours it himself.
I take the glass and realize my hand is trembling.
Matteo notices, but he doesn’t comment.
“Your luggage?” he asks.
“Checked. With Ethan’s reservation.”
“We’ll handle that.”
The ease of it makes my throat tighten. We’ll handle that. Not you should’ve planned better. Not why didn’t you keep your bag? Not this is inconvenient.
I take a sip of water. “I’m sorry you saw that.”
“I’m sorry it happened.”
His face is open, not soft exactly, but steady. Handsome in a way that doesn’t have to request attention. Ethan’s handsomeness has always felt sharpened by need. Matteo’s feels settled, but not at all arrogant.
“Did you know?” I ask.
His brow creases. “About the seating? No.”
“I mean about them?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I’ve had concerns.”
When I look up at him without saying anything, he continues. “I’ve had concerns about Ethan’s judgment, his expense reports, his conduct with clients, and the amount of time Willow Moore seems to spend attached to work that doesn’t require her involvement.”
I close my eyes briefly.
So I’m not imagining it. Somehow that hurts more.
“He told me she was important to the event.”
“She’s junior client relations. Capable, I’m sure, but not essential to every meeting Ethan claimed required her presence.”
The glass is cold in my hand. “I feel stupid.”
“Don’t.” The word comes gently, but firmly enough that I look at him again. “Trusting your husband doesn’t make you stupid,” he says. “His misuse of that trust is the error.”
I breathe in, then out, and my breath seems to rattle in my lungs. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want to do?”
The question catches me off guard. Ethan always asks what I’m going to do, usually while making it clear there’s only one acceptable option. Matteo asks what I want.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
“That’s allowed.”
Allowed. It’s another word I didn’t know I needed to hear.
Matteo sits across from me, giving me space. “My flight to Italy departs in an hour and a half. Private. The Lombardi event still needs oversight, especially if Ethan’s decided to exercise poor judgment before the first toast.”
Despite everything, a faint huff of air escapes me. It’s almost a laugh, but not quite.
“You may fly with me,” he continues. “Or I can arrange a separate commercial ticket. Or a car to take you home. No choice obligates you to explain yourself to me.”
I stare at him.
Home means returning to our townhouse, where Ethan’s suits line the closet by color, and my books are confined to one shelf because he thinks too many visible books make a room look cluttered.
Home means waiting for him to return from Italy with stories adjusted for my consumption.
Home means becoming the wife who didn’t get on the plane and then apologized for making it awkward.
A separate commercial flight means arriving after them, smaller still, dragging my humiliation through customs.
Flying private with Matteo Ruggiero means something I don’t quite have a word for yet.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say.
His eyes warm. “Then don’t.”
I glance toward the lounge windows, where a white jet sits in the distance, sleek and gleaming under the morning sun.
“For years,” I say, surprised by the sound of my own voice, “I’ve tried so hard not to make Ethan uncomfortable. I’ve laughed at things that hurt. I’ve pretended not to notice when he forgets me. I’ve made myself easy to leave behind.”
Matteo doesn’t interrupt.
I set the water down. “I don’t want to be easy to leave behind today.”
“Then fly with me.”
I look at him, this man who should feel like a stranger and somehow feels like the first honest thing that’s happened all morning.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll fly with you.”