Chapter 55 Rosalie
ROSALIE
As the days went by, I realized being a married woman wasn’t much different from being a single one. There was no grand honeymoon. We’d returned to our usual routines almost immediately. The transition from single to married life had felt seamless—almost too seamless.
Max was a creature of habit and predictable to a fault. He was still the same grumpy guy who took his coffee black and wore a watch as if he were the clock himself.
“You’re up early,” he’d murmur.
“Just waiting for my morning kiss,” I’d tease.
His smile would be small but genuine. “Consider it delivered.”
I found myself craving his time. His attention.
I’d started to notice little things about him that would make me smile.
The way he’d tilt his head when he was deep in thought, or how he’d rub the back of his neck when he was annoyed.
His laugh—that maddeningly rich and addicting sound—often filled the room, becoming my favorite sound.
I loved that small, almost invisible smile that would appear on his lips when he knew I was right but didn’t want to admit it.
Even the way he’d pace back and forth while on the phone, gesturing adamantly as if the person on the other end of the line could see him.
Max may have been infuriating, impulsive, and often reckless, but I’d learned he was also fiercely protective, surprisingly kind in quiet moments, and gentle in the loud ones.
Our late-night conversations and the way he looked at me with those honey-brown eyes made me happy, not scared.
It was as if he’d peeled back my defenses and cracked through my composure.
I realized I wanted more time with him, and that could only mean my feelings for him were growing despite the years I’d spent trying to hate him.
The sex certainly didn’t help, and we’d had a lot of it. I couldn’t even remember how many times it had been.
But there was more to it than just the sex.
It was in those quiet moments after, when we’d lie there tangled in the sheets, that we’d talk.
Max would trace lazy patterns on my skin with the tip of his finger as he shared stories from his childhood and how he’d become a made man.
I could see him clearly then—not as the made man everyone feared, but as Max, the boy who’d grown up too fast.
“Did you ever think, back then, that you’d end up here?” I asked one night as his fingers lightly grazed my arm.
“Here?” he repeated, thoughtful. “Married to you?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t respond immediately—he just continued tracing patterns on my skin. Then, quietly, he said, “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to be next to you, mia cara. Men like me dream of women like you.”
At breakfast—which we shared together more often—he’d finish his morning puzzle and listen to me ramble on about things he didn’t care about or have time for. He tried anyway. I figured it was the effort that counted.
On Saturday mornings—well, early afternoons—we’d made it a habit to visit the local farmers’ market.
Max wasn’t a big fan of the crowd or the dogs that weren’t Duke, but he indulged me because he knew how much I loved fresh flowers and handmade decorations—or, as he liked to put it, “clutter.” He’d trail behind me with Duke, carrying the bags with a fake look of irritation that never quite reached his eyes.
Every now and then, Max would cook dinner, though he wasn’t much of a chef.
His specialty was pasta (without a hefty helping of salt), which he made with more enthusiasm than skill.
I’d watch him from the kitchen counter, trying not to laugh as he attempted to follow the recipe step by step, tasting the sauce.
“Is it supposed to look like this?” he asked one night, holding up a spoonful of sauce.
I peered at it, trying not to laugh. “I think it’s supposed to be a bit thicker.”
He sighed, setting the spoon down. “I don’t know how Bianca does it.”
It never turned out perfect—never like Bianca’s anyway—but I always told him it was the best pasta I’d ever had.
Late night, when neither of us could sleep, we’d hop into the car and drive.
It didn’t matter where we were going, and that was secretly my favorite part.
Max would keep one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh.
We’d listen to music—the kind that made me feel everything at once—and argue over the best song or the worst movie we’d ever seen.
He’d pretend to be outraged when I’d reveal a guilty pleasure of mine, like cheesy rom-coms, and I’d laugh when he admitted he secretly enjoyed them too.
And on rainy days, with nothing better to do, he enjoyed playing Go Fish. Each time he lost, he’d laugh it off, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said one afternoon, tossing his cards onto the table.
“I’m not lying,” I protested, trying to keep a straight face.
“You’ve got to be cheating,” he insisted, though his grin gave him away.
“Maybe you’re just bad at the game.”
He leaned back in his chair, laughing. “Or maybe I just like letting you win.”
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I love Max.
The realization sent a wave of panic through me. I could never admit it out loud to him. It would give him such an ego.
“I can’t breathe in here,” I complained, wiping sweat from my forehead. The glass walls of the greenhouse trapped the heat, turning the space into a tropical nightmare.
Momma barely spared me a glance, her attention focused on pruning a row of orchids. “It’s good for you,” she replied curtly. “Builds character.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing better than to argue with her. Momma’s idea of building character often involved a lot of physical discomfort.
She still handled the garden herself. Well, she directed everyone herself, still not trusting the gardeners after that one tulip mishap. I didn’t blame her, though it meant she used both me and Daisy as her reinforcements.
Daisy seemed to thrive in these situations, her competitiveness driving her to outdo everyone, even in gardening. All that did was remind me why I’d stopped playing tennis with her and meeting her at the stables.
“I really can’t breathe in here,” I repeated, more to myself than to anyone else. I messed with the ferns, wishing I could finally break free from Momma’s suffocating demands.
She looked up at me. “Just a little longer,” she said. “We have to make sure everything is perfect for the party in a few days.”
Her tone was gentle, but her words held no mercy. Perfection was nonnegotiable in her world, and it had been that way since I was a kid. There was a reason I preferred Valentinos and Prada over Givenchy and Jimmy Choos. I had a taste for perfection, just like my Momma.
“What party?” I asked.
“We’re hosting a pre-gallery cocktail party here,” Momma explained. “Just a small gathering. Did you forget?”
I blinked, trying to recall any mention of a cocktail party. “I don’t remember you saying anything about it,” I said with a sigh, already dreading the preparations.
Momma paused her pruning, turning to give me a scrutinizing look. “Of course I mentioned it. You were probably too distracted to pay attention. It’s this Friday.”
“Wow, so soon?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Momma’s gatherings were anything but small.
Much as I loved art, the gallery was one of those obligatory social functions where everyone pretended to care about a cause while trying to outdo each other in fashion and influence.
I wondered if Max would even be able to attend or if the Outfit would demand his time yet again.
“Yes. And there is more than enough time to prepare—it’s only Wednesday, dear.”
“Do we really need to go through all this trouble for a pre-gallery party?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping for some reprieve.
“Yes,” Momma said firmly. “It’s about maintaining appearances and connections. You never know when a small gesture could lead to something bigger. Speaking of which, have you heard from your father at all?”
I stifled a groan and forced a smile. I’d thought it best not to tell her what had happened that day in the warehouse.
How her husband, the father of her children, had held a gun to her daughter’s head and expected her to believe it was in her best interests.
I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t want to hold any grudges, because that didn’t affect him in any way—it only affected me.
It was easy for me to forgive him, because I wanted nothing to do with him.
After all, just like my father had said, I was too much like my mother.
“Last I heard, he was in Chicago.”
She shook her head slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Can a mistress be a city? Is this how Valentina felt?”
I had a feeling this wasn’t just about Chicago or my father’s absence. It was about the years of silent suffering. Did Momma know he was full of it too?
I didn’t answer. Instead I reached for the gold necklace around my neck—a nervous habit I’d picked up from her.
“Do you want me to help with the seating arrangements?” I offered, trying to steer the conversation to something less personal; something that wouldn’t make the air any more difficult to breathe.
She sighed and followed with a nod. “Yes, that would be lovely. We need to make sure the Wilsons are seated near the front. They’ve been such supporters.”
“Fine, but can we at least get out of this greenhouse? I think I’m starting to wilt.”
Daisy breezed into the greenhouse. “Ugh, this place is a sauna.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered. Daisy looked cool, her cheeks barely flushed compared to mine.
Momma chuckled softly. “You and Daisy can go figure out the invite list. Margot should’ve emailed you the main list. Daisy, be sure to check.”
As we wrapped up in the greenhouse, the heat seemed to seep into my bones, making every movement feel like an effort. The cool air inside the house was a welcome relief, and I breathed in deeply, already feeling better.