Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
VIOLA
Dawn light filters through the sheer curtains, soft and gray.
It tells me the city has not yet woken up properly.
I lie in the big bed, sheets tangled around my legs, and my first thought is him.
My body already knows he’s moving around downstairs.
I recognize the low hum of the coffee machine he always turns on as soon as he goes downstairs.
All I want to do is go downstairs and watch him until he leaves.
It’s becoming downright embarrassing. Last time I “needed” coffee was at six a.m., exactly when he was heading out the door.
Oh! The way his eyes lingered on me, warm and knowing, made my cheeks burn.
I’d mumbled something stupid about not being able to sleep and practically fled back upstairs like a teenager with a crush.
God, I’m a grown woman. His wife, technically.
And here I am, hiding under the covers, fighting the ridiculous urge to creep to the top of the stairs just to catch one more glimpse of him before he disappears into the big bad city.
But this time I stay in bed. I listen instead.
His footsteps are quiet — deliberately so — because he doesn’t want to wake me.
I know that. He’s always so careful with me now, like I’m something fragile that he’s afraid to break.
I hear the soft click of the front door alarm being disarmed, the rustle of his suit jacket as he shrugs it on, the low murmur of his voice when he answers his cell phone.
My heart does this stupid little flutter.
I wish I could go down there. Just walk straight into the foyer, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him goodbye like it is the most natural thing in the world.
He’d welcome it. I know he would. Those whiskey eyes would darken, his hands would settle on my waist, and he’d kiss me back slow and deep like he has all the time in the world.
The fantasy hits me so hard I actually shift under the sheets, thighs pressing together.
When are we just going to share a room permanently?
The question slides through my mind before I can stop it.
I know, I shouldn’t be thinking these ridiculous fantasies.
This is supposed to be a contract: body only, no love, easy exit when I want it.
But the thought of waking up every morning with his warm, solid body curled around mine, of falling asleep with his arm heavy across my waist… God, I can’t stop dreaming about it.
The way he’d pull me closer in his sleep without even realizing it.
Frustrated with myself, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, and try to force sleep to come, but it doesn’t. My mind won’t shut up. After twenty restless minutes, I give up, throw the covers back, and pad barefoot across the cool wood floor toward the closet.
There are three suitcases full of clothes in it.
Everything was delivered from Salvatore’s mansion a few days ago.
I open one of the suitcases and start hanging my clothes up.
My fingers brush over silk blouses and soft cashmere sweaters that feel different now.
Lighter. Mine. Back at Salvatore’s estate, the housekeepers handled everything, and I didn’t care.
I floated through those rooms like a ghost, numb and detached, because none of it ever belonged to me.
But here… here I’m reveling in it. Folding my own sweaters.
Deciding which dresses go where. I even imagined where I might put a pottery wheel if Ricci really does build me a studio.
The thought makes my chest feel strangely full.
A few hours later, my phone rings from the nightstand. My heart jumps. Perhaps its Ricci. I hurry back into the bedroom, a ridiculous little smile already tugging at my lips, and snatch it up without checking the screen.
It’s not him.
Disappointment crashes through me like cold water hitting bare skin.
My thumb hovers over the glowing screen, staring at my sister’s name instead of the one I was stupidly hoping for.
The little flutter in my chest dies, leaving behind a hollow, embarrassing ache I don’t want to name.
I let out a long, slow breath and try to push it down, but it lingers anyway — heavy, ridiculous, and clinging to my ribs.
I lie back on the bed, the soft sheets cool against my bare legs, and stare up at the smooth white ceiling as I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice normal, like nothing inside me just twisted.
Fabiola launches straight into it, her words bright and quick but carrying that familiar undercurrent of tension I know too well. “Viola, hi. How are things? Married life treating you okay?”
I keep my answer short the way I’ve learned to do when I don’t want to let anyone in too deep. “It’s fine.” My fingers trace the edge of the duvet, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “He’s good to me.”
There is a pause on her end. I can almost picture her, biting the inside of her cheek, eyes darting like she’s searching for the right way to say whatever comes next.
Then she sighs heavily like she’s been carrying this for days. “Dad needs help, Vee. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s really bad this time. He was beaten up a few days ago and—”
I cut her off, sitting up a little straighter against the headboard, the movement sharp enough that the sheets slip down my thighs. “What? I married that old bastard to clear his debts. Don’t tell me he’s been gambling again.”
The silence stretches uncomfortably between us. I can almost see her on the other end of the line. Lips pressed tight.
“He racked up new ones,” she finally admits, her voice small and hesitant, almost apologetic.
I close my eyes, a familiar wave of exhaustion settling over me, pressing down on my shoulders like an old, unwelcome weight I thought I’d finally shaken off. The same damn cycle. Always the same damn cycle.
“Vee,” she starts again, softer now, almost pleading, “family is family. We have to help each other out.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
There’s no humor in it at all. Just a sharp, tired edge that scrapes against my throat.
“Salvatore left me with nothing. That’s why I had to marry Ricci so quickly.
I have no money. You know this.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t soften it.
I can’t. “So tell me — where exactly do I get the money from? I have nothing. Let everyone fend for themselves.”
The words hang there between us. Fabiola tries to push back, her voice rising, trying to guilt me with all the usual lines about blood and loyalty, but I’m already done.
I can feel the old resentment bubbling up, twisting everything that felt light and hopeful this morning into something dark and depressing.
Will I never be free of my father’s debts?
I end the call without saying goodbye, my thumb pressing the red button hard. The phone goes silent in my hand.
I lie there staring at the ceiling again, the smooth white surface blurring slightly when I blink.
The conversation sits heavy in my stomach, twisting, turning, souring everything.
I try to shake it off while I finish my coffee at the kitchen island, the warm mug cupped between my palms, but it lingers stubbornly.
Truth is, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Years of brainwashing can’t be turned off at the drop of a hat. A child should always help its parents no matter what. That is the duty of a child.
Eventually, during my solitary breakfast of yogurt and fresh berries at the marble island, I decide I need something that’s just for me.
Something that feels like mine again. I pull out my laptop and start searching for pottery classes nearby.
One studio catches my eye almost immediately.
It’s not too far from the penthouse, and it’s small and intimate-looking, with morning sessions that would fit perfectly into my days.
My pulse picks up with a little spark of genuine excitement I haven’t felt in years.
It feels warm and bright against the heaviness still sitting in my chest.
I finish breakfast quickly, rinse my bowl in the sink, and head out, grabbing a light jacket on the way.
The city air is crisp and cool against my skin as I step into the private elevator, the doors closing with a soft whoosh.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m moving toward something I actually want.
And that feels good. Really good.