6. Receipts in the Honeymoon Suite
Chapter Six
RECEIPTS IN THE HONEYMOON SUITE
The next morning, I wake alone in my lake-view suite with no hangover, no husband, and no patience for nonsense.
For ten minutes, I lie in the enormous bed and listen to birds sing somewhere beyond the balcony doors. The air smells faintly of roses, and sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, turning the room gold.
Then I sit up and make a list that’s unlike any to-do list I’ve made before.
Shared accounts.
Company expenses I can identify.
Marital credit cards.
Travel charges.
Hotel invoices.
Attorney.
Separate bank account.
Passport.
Phone records.
Cloud backup.
By nine, Matteo has arranged a conference room for me. It’s a proper room with a long table, strong coffee, a printer that works, and a view of the gardens. He arrives with a leather folder and two cappuccinos.
“I brought legal counsel in by video,” he says. “For the company, not for personal issues, but I can also help you find independent counsel for your divorce and financial protection.”
“Thank you.”
“And before we begin, I need to say this clearly. I can share what Ruggiero Events has the legal right to review. I won’t ask you to access anything unlawfully, and I won’t use you to obtain information I shouldn’t have.”
The distinction is important.
In a similar situation, Ethan would’ve called it loyalty if it benefited him. Matteo calls it a boundary.
“I understand,” I say.
We spend hours sorting my marriage into evidence, and it's horrifying how many lies have receipts.
There’s a hotel upgrade in Miami billed as “client hospitality.” The suite had two robes in the confirmation email.
There’s a jewelry purchase at a boutique in Charleston on the same weekend Ethan told me his meetings ran late.
A charge at a luxury spa in Palm Beach, under Willow’s name, is folded into a conference expense report.
There are three private transfers where the passenger notes read E.P. + W.M.
And then there are the personal account items: A credit card payment from our joint checking to cover a balance I never saw; a transfer from our savings marked taxes, even though I handled our estimated tax payments that quarter; and a designer handbag purchased the day after Ethan told me we should delay replacing our broken dishwasher because cash flow was tight.
My face gets hot at that one, not because of the bag itself, but because I remember washing dishes by hand for six weeks while Ethan stood in our kitchen and said we all make sacrifices.
Matteo sits across from me, reading through expense summaries with increasing disgust. “He’ll be terminated,” he says. The words are calm but sound final.
“He thought he was going to be promoted soon.”
“Apparently, he thought many incorrect things.”
I rub my forehead. “Will this hurt the wedding?”
“No. I’ll make sure the event is protected. Ethan won’t be given a stage until we’re ready to pull it out from under him.”
I should be startled by how elegantly ruthless that sounds, but it only increases my focus.
In the afternoon, I go upstairs to change before a pre-wedding vineyard excursion. Near the end of the corridor, I hear Willow laugh. It’s not her public laugh, not the bell-like one she uses in groups. It’s lower.
The door to the honeymoon suite is cracked open, but it shouldn’t be, because the bride and groom haven’t arrived yet. Through the gap, I see Ethan near the balcony doors, his tie loose. Willow’s standing close enough to straighten his collar.
“You said she’d go home,” Willow says.
“I thought she would.”
“You said she always folds.”
His jaw tightens. “She usually does.”
The old me would’ve backed away, gathered my hurt like broken glass, and carried it somewhere private.
The new me pushes the door open, and they spring apart.
Ethan’s face darkens. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same thing. Unless the honeymoon suite is part of Willow’s client-relations duties.”
Willow wraps her arms around herself. “You’re twisting everything.”
“No. I’m finally looking at it straight.”
Ethan moves toward me. “This ends now.”
“It ended at the airport.”
His nostrils flare. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“I’m not playing.”
Willow lifts her chin, anger finally cracking through the helpless act. “You’re acting like he was happy with you.”
Ethan says, “Willow.”
“No, she should know.” Willow’s eyes shine. “He was going to leave after the promotion. He was trying to do it the right way.”
The right way?
I look at Ethan, and he doesn’t deny it. A cold understanding settles into place.
“You were going to use this trip,” I say. “Get promoted, impress the investors, come home with more leverage, then leave me.”
Ethan’s silence is answer enough.
“And you put her in first class beside you while I came along to help you look married.”
He makes a mean, ugly face. “Don’t pretend you haven’t benefited from my career.”
I almost smile. “Your career has been dining out on my labor for years.”
Willow scoffs. “My god, you sound bitter.”
Ethan steps closer. “You’re not going to ruin me.”
I hold his gaze. “I don’t have to. You kept records.”
For the first time, real fear crosses his face.
I leave them there. My knees shake in the hallway, but I keep walking until I reach a quiet alcove near a window.
Matteo finds me five minutes later. He doesn’t ask if I’m all right, maybe because he knows the answer is too complicated. “What do you want to do?” he asks instead.
I look down at the lake, where boats are gliding across, leaving white lines in the blue.
“I want my name clean. I want my share protected. I want him exposed before he uses another woman, another client, or another room full of people who trust him because he smiles well.”
Matteo nods once. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
I turn toward him. “You keep saying we.”
“I want to help you, if you’ll permit it.”
The air between us changes, or maybe I finally stop pretending it hasn’t been changing all along.
His voice lowers. “Sophie, I want you.”
My breath catches.
“But I don’t want to be your reaction to pain,” he continues. “I don’t want to be the man you choose because another man made you feel unwanted.”
“I don’t feel unwanted when I’m with you.”
His eyes darken. “I’m glad, and when you’re ready for me to court you, I intend to do it thoroughly, so there’ll be no doubt you’re wanted.”
The word court should sound old-fashioned, but from Matteo, it sounds devastating.
He steps back before I can decide whether to step closer. “Ethan is scheduled for a toast tomorrow night,” he says. “Before the Lombardis, the investors, and our senior team.”
I understand immediately. “That’s when you’re going to do it.”
“That’s when he expects applause.”
I look down the corridor toward the suite where my husband and his mistress are probably arguing over which of them is most at risk.
Then I look back at Matteo. “Then let’s make sure he gets the audience he deserves.”