50 | Why are you calling my wife?
The sun spills across the backyard in lazy golden streaks, the morning air thick with the scent of citrus and freshly brewed espresso.
The quiet hum of the estate feels almost peaceful, but I can't enjoy it.
Not when Aurelia is sitting across from me, looking like she has something to hide.
She hasn't said much since we sat down to eat breakfast. She stirs her cappuccino absently, avoiding my gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Every time I glance at her, she's blushing or fidgeting like she's guilty of something. It's subtle, too subtle for anyone else to notice, but I do.
I notice everything.
She barely touches her breakfast, and I feel my patience thinning.
"You good, principessa?" I ask, my voice deceptively calm as I sip my coffee.
She tenses slightly before forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just tired..."
Lies.
A beat of silence stretches between us before she suddenly pushes her chair back.
"I'll be right back," she says, already standing. "I need to use the bathroom."
I watch her go, my fingers tightening around the handle of my coffee cup.
The moment she disappears inside, something vibrates on the table.
I glance down and it's her phone.
A name flashes on the screen, and just like that, whatever patience I had left vanishes.
Franco ????
My jaw clenches, a simmering heat unfurling in my chest. I stare at the screen, at his name, pulsing like a taunt, like a fucking challenge.
Why the hell is he calling her?
I understand they're childhood friends, but why is another man calling Aurelia at eight in the morning?
I shouldn't pick up since I don't want to invade Aurelia's privacy.
I should let it go.
But I don't.
I grab the phone and swipe to answer.
Before I can say a word, Franco's voice comes through, light and casual, like he has no fucking idea whose hands he's just walked into.
"Hey, how's it going in Italy? You settling in, red?"
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles going white.
I allow the silence to stretch for a second, let him wonder why she isn't answering before I slowly start to speak.
"Why are you calling my wife?"
The shift is immediate.
Franco goes silent on the other end, and I can practically hear the way his breath hitches.
"Boss," he says, his voice more careful now, more measured. "I—uh, I was just checking in. That's all. Making sure she's okay..."
Checking in.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, my free hand curling into a fist on the table.
"You're her bodyguard, not her friend. I pay you a great deal to guard and protect her," I remind him, my voice like steel. "You take orders. You don't check in unless I tell you to."
There's a long pause.
Then, to my irritation, Franco has the nerve to laugh softly, like he thinks this is funny.
"Of course, boss. No disrespect. I just know Aurelia's been through a lot, and I figured she might want to hear a familiar voice. That's all."
He says her name so easily. Aurelia. Like it's his to say.
"She's comfortable with me, too," Franco says in a calm voice.
I go still.
The coffee in my hand is suddenly too hot, the morning sun too bright, the air too thick with something that makes my muscles coil tight.
Comfortable with him.
I want to laugh. I want to put my fist through the table.
Instead, I lean back in my chair, keeping my voice dangerously smooth. "That so?"
"Yeah, boss." He's pushing it now, testing his limits."She trusts me. I was there when you weren't."
I exhale slowly, the tension curling through my spine, settling in my chest like something sharp and unbearable.
I hate him.
Not just because of this conversation, not just because of his tone.
I hate him because I know he's right.
He was there when I wasn't.
When Aurelia's life was turned upside down, when she was sad and alone, when she needed someone, he was there.
Not me.
I hear movement inside the house, footsteps coming closer, which means Aurelia is coming back from the restroom.
I exhale, gripping the phone tighter. "I'll tell her you called," I say flatly.
Franco doesn't hesitate. "You do that."
Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a second before placing it back on the table, my chest tight with something I don't want to name.
The back door swings open. Aurelia steps outside, her red hair slightly damp from washing her face, her eyes still carrying that hint of guilt or shame.
She hesitates when she sees me, her gaze flicking to the phone on the table, like she knows.
I say nothing.
I just watch her, let the silence stretch between us.
She swallows. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I say, my voice even. "Franco called."
Her eyes widen just slightly before she masks her expression. "Oh."
That's all she says.
Oh.
Like it's nothing.
Like it doesn't mean a damn thing.
She settles back into her seat, casually picking up her fork and continuing with her breakfast as if it means nothing, as if it doesn't matter at all.
My eyes remain fixed on her, tracing every detail, the way her lips curve into a soft smile, the way her fingers fidget absentmindedly around the fork, but my mind is somewhere else, drowning in thoughts I can't escape.
I wonder how many times Franco has called her late at night?
How many times his name has lit up her screen with a message she couldn't ignore?
I wonder if she's ever clung to her phone, waiting for him?
How many times has she run to him, her voice breaking, her hands trembling, seeking comfort in his arms instead of mine?
The thought burns, a slow, relentless ache in my chest, because no matter how much I wish it were different, I know I'll never be the one she turns to first.
I despise the way Franco says her name, like he has a right to it, like he owns a piece of her that I never will.
I hate that she lets him, that she doesn't push him away, that she doesn't even seem to notice the way it twists a knife in my chest.
But what I hate the most is that it matters. It fucking matters. Because jealousy was never something I understood. Never something I let control me.
Until Aurelia came along.