23. Allie
Allie
I’m on my second cup of coffee, and I absolutely do not need it. My nerves are already tap dancing on my last shred of rationality. Across the kitchen island, Vinnie sits patiently, flipping through a paperback, his eyes flicking between me and his book.
The black Amex card remains between us, glittering under the kitchen light, mocking me. Go ahead, Allie. Be a good little wife. Spend your husband’s money. Buy shoes. Get highlights. Forget that you were unceremoniously dumped on your wedding night.
Yeah, no thanks. If Rico thinks I’m going to pass my days as a trophy wife with a shopping addiction and a standing nail appointment, he’s got another thing coming.
Since Vinnie had surfaced from the basement apartment around nine, he’d barely said a word. Just sat there reading, occasionally glancing at me, no doubt trying to assess the situation and mentally noting my status.
Day After Wedding. Female, early 20s. Habitat: Pristine, joyless mansion. Mating habits: Inconclusive.
I know what he’s thinking. Why is the bride sipping coffee instead of basking in post-marital joy?
Because her husband vanished without a trace, pulling a magician-level disappearing act after refusing to perform the one trick everyone expected.
All because I didn’t have the foresight to make that agreement ironclad.
Nope—I left loopholes, and Rico has made it crystal clear he intends to crawl through every single one.
A knock at the front door jolts me from a rather glorious pity party of one. I glance at Vinnie, then around the empty house, as if expecting Rico to materialize from thin air.
“Want me to get that?” Vinnie thumbs toward the door.
“No, I’ve got it.” I slide off the stool, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile. The knock comes again, sharper this time.
Through the peephole, I spot Sienna and Violet, both beaming, fresh off what must’ve been a brunch fueled by bottomless mimosas and gossip worth bottling.
I’m mildly bitter I missed it, though they probably assumed I was tangled up with my husband and too blissfully occupied to peel myself away for breakfast.
I pause. Do I have to let them in? Technically, it’s my house now, but it still feels more like I’m squatting in Rico’s cold, echoing Batcave of emotional repression.
“Hey!” Violet trills the moment I crack open the door. She’s rocking skinny jeans and a floral blouse, her green eyes so bright they look Photoshopped. “Soooo… are you planning to let us in, or should we chat here like we’re selling Girl Scout cookies?”
“Right. Sorry.” I step aside, waving them in while mentally cursing myself for still being in this damn oversized T-shirt. I'm sporting the look of a one-night stand that overstayed her welcome, in her husband’s bed, in his clothes, in his house.
Yup, this is rock bottom.
Both women peek around the foyer, their expressions varying from curiosity to mild horror. Violet frowns. “Okay, Alex always said his brother was a minimalist, but wow. This is…well, I have no words, really.”
Sienna nods, walking into the barren living room. “Minimalist isn’t even the right word. This is… clinically depressing. He doesn’t even have a clock.”
“You know Rico hates clocks.” Violet breezes past the sterile seating arrangement and into the kitchen, where Vinnie looks up from his book and Violet smiles cheerfully at him. I swear the man full-on pink cheeks blushes. I didn’t know Vinnie was capable of that.
It’s weird seeing someone treat Vinnie as an actual human being. In my world, bodyguards were essentially living furniture. You only acknowledged them when arranging someone’s removal—or their untimely demise. Good times.
“Why doesn’t he like clocks?” I ask, holding up the coffeepot. Sienna nods for some while Violet waves it off.
“I think it’s because he doesn’t want to be reminded how much time he wastes. If he doesn’t look at the clock, he can pretend he’s not spending all day in the work vortex.”
Sienna snorts into her cup. “Pretty sure Rico wouldn’t believe work is a waste of time. That man treats Java like it’s his love language.” Sadly, I don’t know what “java” is, or I’d use it to my advantage.
Violet leans across the counter, manicured nails tapping a rhythm that does nothing to hide her impatience. Her gaze flicks between me and Vinnie.
“Soooo. How was last night?”
Vinnie’s face color drains fast, with those rosy cheeks a fleeting memory at this point.
“I’m gonna—uh—finish getting ready.” He jabs a thumb toward the garage door, where the stairs lead to his basement apartment.
The man’s already dressed, keys in hand, practically vibrating with the need to escape.
“Coward,” I mutter, watching him bolt the second I open my mouth—as if I just announced a dramatic live reading of Fifty Shades of Grey.
Honestly, might not be a terrible option.
Books might end up being the only source of thoughtful dialogue I get from now on.
Is it bad when a paperback offers a deeper connection than the man you married?
Violet snickers. “Damn. He moves fast for a guy built to withstand a car crash.” Her gaze tracks him out the door. “He really is Antonio’s brother. Younger, right?”
I nod, sipping my coffee, which has officially transitioned from a morning pick-me-up to an emotional support beverage.
“Anyway.” Sienna slides into the seat Vinnie abandoned, her finger landing squarely on the black Amex. “Hubby wants you to play Real Housewives and shop till you drop?” Her brows wiggle as she pushes the card toward me.
“That’s what his note said.” I shrug, because what else is there to say? My husband communicates through Post-Its and sneaky messages on my phone. I mentally add to my daily to-do list to change my phone’s password. Only, I don’t know how...
“Wait.” Violet’s brows crash together. “He left you a note? He’s not here?”
“Nope. Went to work.” I try to sound casual about it. “Last night.”
Silence. Both women blink at me, synchronized brain glitch clear as day.
Sienna’s gaze flicks to Violet, then back to me. “He left after you both…you know…” she trails off, cheeks adorably pink.
Sienna doesn’t do crass. It’s cute. She’s only a year younger than me, but being married with twin girls and a stepson gives her an air of Mom Knows Best. Meanwhile, Violet’s older, already in her thirties—not that her perfect skin or energy levels show that one bit.
Funny. I told Papa I didn’t want to marry Carlo because he was too old for me. Now here I am, hitched to a man thirteen years my senior who has less interest in me than he does in his six-monitor setup. Karma’s not just a bitch; she’s a full-blown matriarch serving retribution on a silver platter.
“There was no…you know.” Rejected by my husband. God, that is certainly going to be a fun one to unpack in therapy. My type of therapy — not his.
Violet gasps so dramatically I half-expect her to faint. “Wait. He just left after the wedding and went to work?”
“Yup.” I pop the p. “Apparently, I wasn’t ovulating, so he determined consummation could wait.”
“But Alex said you made him agree to the contract.”
“I still can’t believe this was arranged,” Sienna mutters, arms crossing over her chest. “How did no one tell me until the actual wedding?”
“Because you’d have staged a full-blown protest. Ranting about how marriage should be based on passion and romance and moonlit declarations.” Violet offers.
“Says the woman who writes those exact stories for a living,” Sienna fires back.
“Touché.”
Sienna comes back to me, brows furrowed. “So, he already broke the contract?”
I shake my head, jaw stiffening. “No. I never specified when we’d consummate. Just that it had to happen. So, Mr. Literal took advantage of the loophole.”
My eyes drift to the dining area—or what should be a dining area if my husband didn’t have the interior design aesthetic of a doomsday prepper. The modern chandelier hangs above nothing, as if it’s mourning the absence of a table.
Then I glance at the Amex. Just like that, an idea is born.
“You two wanna go shopping?”
Violet’s eyes light up. “Are you asking if I want to spend your husband’s money? Yes, Allie. Yes, I do.”
If Rico wants me to be the good little wife and shop, then I’m going to shop. And this house? It’s about to get an extreme makeover he’ll never forget.