4. A Dress for the Woman He Forgot
Chapter Four
A DRESS FOR THE WOMAN HE FORGOT
The villa hotel rises above Lake Como like something out of a dream with stucco walls, green shutters, terraces stacked with flowers, and cypress trees stretching toward the sky. The lake below catches the afternoon light and throws it back in glittering pieces.
I stand beneath the portico with Matteo’s jacket still around my shoulders and try to absorb the absurdity of my day.
This morning I was abandoned in economy. Now, a man in a linen suit is welcoming me to an Italian villa with a glass of lemon water and a room key presented on a small silver tray.
Matteo speaks to the hotel manager in Italian. I understand almost none of it, but I catch my name, my luggage, and a tone that makes three staff members move with immediate purpose.
He turns back to me. “Your checked bag is being retrieved from the airline. It may arrive later tonight.”
“Of course you can just make luggage appear.”
“Not always, but I’m much better with luggage than with printers.”
The comment is so unexpected I smile.
“There’s a suite ready for you,” he says. “Separate from Ethan’s reservation. You can rest. Shower. Throw things, if that helps. Preferably not at the windows, though, because they’re historic.”
“You make a lot of jokes for a powerful hotel heir.”
“I’ve found people listen better if I don’t spend all day acting like a marble statue.” There’s that charm again, easy and disarming, but not careless.
“I don’t have anything to wear tonight,” I say. “My dress is in the suitcase.”
“I’ve arranged options.”
My smile fades on instinct. “Matteo?—”
“No obligation. No transformation. No Pretty Woman nonsense.” I blink, and he looks almost offended on my behalf. “Your husband put you in an impossible position and took your luggage with him. You deserve choices. That’s all.”
Choices again. He’s dangerous with that word.
My suite has pale blue walls, a white bed big enough for three people, antique mirrors, French doors that open to a balcony filled with flowers, and a gorgeous view of the lake.
The bathroom is marble, and the towels are thick and indulgent.
I shower longer than necessary, letting the humiliation from the airport run down the drain.
When I come out in a robe, a woman named Chiara is waiting in the sitting room with clothing racks.
“Signora Pratt, Mr. Ruggiero asked that you have several options. He said you prefer elegance over attention.”
My throat tightens. Ethan would’ve said I prefer safe. Matteo called it elegance.
Chiara shows me dresses in deep green, champagne, navy, and black.
I try them all on before deciding the green dress is the one.
It’s soft, but structured, with a neckline that’s just off the shoulder.
It follows my body without squeezing it into something it’s not.
My waist looks defined. My skin looks warmer.
My eyes look clearer. I look like a woman going somewhere on purpose.
Chiara fastens the back. “This one.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
She also does my hair and makeup, and when she’s finished, I barely recognize myself, not because I look so different, but because I look noticeable.
A knock sounds, and Chiara opens the door. Matteo’s standing on the other side in a black suit and open-collared white shirt.
His eyes take me in appraisingly, and his face tells me he likes what he sees.
“Sophie,” he says softly. It’s just my name, and it’s better than any compliment Ethan ever gave me because it sounds like he means all of me.
“Too much?” I ask, because old habits don’t die just because you put on a better dress.
Matteo steps into the room. “No. Perfectly right.”
My hands go still at my sides, and Chiara busies herself with a jewelry case, pretending not to hear.
Downstairs, the welcome reception has begun on the terrace. Guests drift through the open doors with champagne flutes in hand. Somewhere, a string quartet plays something soft and bright.
Ethan arrives forty minutes late.
I’m speaking with Matteo near a floral arch when I see him.
He stops at the terrace entrance, Willow beside him in a pink dress that looks chosen to suggest innocence. Ethan’s gaze finds me, sweeps down the green dress, then jerks to Matteo.
I feel Matteo look at me. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” I say. Then, “No. Nearby.”
His mouth softens. “Nearby.”
Ethan crosses the terrace too quickly for a man who’s trying to pretend he’s calm. “Sophie,” he says. “What the hell is this?”
“A welcome dinner, I believe.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t be cute.”
Willow hovers behind him. “You look beautiful,” she says, as if the words pain her.
Ethan lowers his voice. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my boss.”
“You managed that all by yourself.”
“This has gone far enough.”
“I agree.”
He seems relieved for one foolish second.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only he and Willow can hear. “I know about the affair.”
Willow’s face drains of color, but Ethan doesn’t have the decency to look shocked. He only looks annoyed.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I saw the photos.”
His jaw tenses. “You went through my private files?”
“They were in our shared cloud album.”
“That’s not what you think it is.”
“Ethan, there’s a photo of Willow in your hotel room wearing your shirt.”
Willow whispers, “Ethan.”
He shoots her a hard look, then turns back to me. “You’ve been distant for months. You don’t understand the pressure I’m under. Willow supports my work.”
“I supported your life.”
His eyes harden because he can’t deny it. “You’re emotional right now.”
“I’m actually getting less emotional by the minute.”
“Sophie—”
“After the event, we’ll discuss the divorce.”
The word hangs between us, clean and irreversible.
He blinks. “Divorce?”
“Yes. But until then, you should be careful.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s the courtesy of advance notice. I’ve spent years protecting you from consequences. That service has ended.” I walk away before he can respond.
Matteo meets me near the terrace doors. He doesn’t ask what happened. Maybe he can read enough on my face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
“To go inside like you belong here.”
I look once at Ethan, who’s still standing near Willow with his perfect suit and ruined composure.
Then I place my hand on Matteo’s arm.
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”