60. Allie
Allie
It’s been almost a week since that night. The night Rico had sex with me, willingly, knowing full well it would not result in a baby. A shocking development, I know. But don’t worry—I’m not about to get sucked into the black hole of delusion, also known as hope.
Sure, for a fleeting moment, I thought we had a connection.
Something warm and real, like maybe my emotionally suffocated husband had cracked open just a little.
He knew I was upset; he knew I couldn’t get pregnant, and he made slow, torturously good love to me.
And then? Poof. That euphoria? The kind that made me wake up all starry-eyed, literally sprawled across his chest like I belonged there?
Gone.
Like a mirage.
The second we untangled, his face turned cold, like someone had flipped a switch in his beautifully aggravating brain.
He got up, showered, dressed, and left for work, moving through the motions with robotic precision, as if I hadn’t just spent the entire night worshiping every scar, every taut muscle, every inch of him.
There was no connection. No moment. Just two people using sex to get through emotions neither of us had the courage to talk about. Well, I feel things. Rico? He doesn’t do emotions. I’m starting to believe he was built in a lab.
And now? He’s avoiding me.
Oh, not obviously. That would require effort.
No, my brilliant husband has somehow found a way to keep me too busy during the week for our so-called date nights (which, let’s be honest, barely existed in the first place).
Even dinners together? Poof. Gone like his personality in a social setting.
And, of course, my only day off is reserved for the one event neither of us can escape—family dinner at his parents' house.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m flipping the script.
I took the night off, and it just so happens that it’s the grand opening of Sienna’s latest art exhibit. And before Rico has the chance to worm his way out of it, he’s going. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I had his suit dry cleaned. I cleared my schedule. And since his brothers will send him home at a reasonable hour from the office—because even they know the man needs sunlight once in a while—he’ll walk through that door, expecting peace and solitude, only to be ambushed.
Is this the best way to get my husband out of the house?
No.
Would giving him any notice guarantee an immediate and strategic escape?
Absolutely.
The thing about Rico is, he needs a shove. A gentle nudge won’t cut it. He requires a push off a cliff to get him to do things. And I am happy to provide said shove.
At exactly five, I hear the garage door open. Right on schedule.
I’m already dressed. Red Valentino gown, all satin and form-fitting, because if I’m forcing my husband to socialize, I’m damn sure looking good while doing it.
A pair of black Louboutins to match, a glass of wine in hand, and my wedding ring twirling between my fingers as I stare at it under the dim kitchen light.
Rico doesn’t even know I took the day off. He’ll come home, see me waiting, and boom—his anti-social plans for the night? Gone.
Ever since I got my job, I’ve kept my money separate from Rico’s.
He still deposits an allowance into my account, not that I use it.
It was in the contract, back when I had no income.
Now? The money just sits there, untouched, because if there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s owe him anything or be owned by anyone.
Not that he notices.
The deposits are probably set up as an automatic transfer—just another financial transaction he never thinks twice about.
And let’s be honest, it’s not like I need the money. I live in a ridiculously gorgeous brownstone for free, drive a car I didn’t buy (well, Vinnie drives it, but still), and my husband—who never once acts like a man dripping in wealth—paid two million dollars in cash to buy my restaurant.
Two million.
To keep me out of his hair.
He spent two million dollars for peace and quiet.
And he didn’t even blink.
That realization alone? Not really sure how to categorize the feeling that trails it.
I stare down at my rings again. The engagement ring—a stunning, absurdly expensive diamond he didn’t pick out for me.
The wedding band—one I didn’t buy myself.
When I was planning our romantic (ha) wedding, I was told to only pick out Rico’s ring.
Mine? “Already taken care of,” Mama had said, waving me off with a knowing smile.
I assume she and Nonna picked it out.
A sweet gesture, considering my husband likely wouldn’t have bothered.
Because Rico’s idea of romance?
Apparently, it begins and ends in the bedroom or whatever surface he can use as long as I'm bent over it.
It’s been a measly week since Rico made love to me.
And yes, I’m calling it that. Not just sex.
Not just another sweaty, orgasm-fueled workout.
It was different. Slower. More deliberate.
Less about getting off and more about something else—something I’ve been too afraid to name because the second I do, my husband will promptly kill it with his bare hands.
And yet, here I am again, that pathetic flicker of hope still burning in my chest like a stubborn candle wick that just refuses to die.
The way he kissed me, held me, moved over me—it wasn’t rushed or aggressive, wasn’t born out of frustration or obligation.
It was intentional. And the worst part? He knew there was no chance of me getting pregnant that night.
I was already late, had already taken the test, and he still touched me like I mattered. Like he wanted to.
Which is why, as much as I hate myself for it, I leave my heart's door open just a crack. You know, just in case my husband wants to walk through it.
When Rico walks in through the mudroom, he stops.
Really stops. His eyes rake over me from head to toe, slow and measured, like he’s taking inventory of every inch of exposed skin before landing back on my face.
And for once, I appreciate that his first reaction isn’t What the hell are you doing home?
Baby steps.
After a long pause, he takes a few steps closer. “What’s the occasion?”
I glance down at my wineglass, suddenly wondering if I should’ve had a lot more of it before attempting this little game. Hindsight is a real bitch.
“Well,” I start, swirling the wine dramatically like some smug villain in a soap opera. “We’re long overdue for a date night.”
His lips part like he’s about to argue, but I hold up my hand.
“No, don’t even try it. We haven’t gone on a single date, Rico. My only days off, we spend at your family’s house—which, for the record, is not a date. So, I figured we could compromise.”
His brow lifts as he gives my dress another once-over. “What kind of compromise?”
“You come with me to Sienna’s gallery exhibit tonight, and in return, I’ll let you take this off with your teeth.” I gesture up and down my body, channeling my best Vanna White, presenting a brand-new car energy.
“No.”
Just like that. No hesitation. No, let me think about it. Just No, as if I’d asked him to donate a kidney on the spot.
He moves past me toward the kitchen, but I reach out and grab his arm before he can make a full escape.
He doesn’t flinch at my touch anymore, which, let’s be honest, is progress.
And maybe, possibly, I’ve tested touching him while he’s asleep—strictly for research purposes, of course—and he didn’t even flinch then either.
So, yeah. Progress. Or pathetic optimism. Jury’s still out.
“Rico. Please.” I soften my tone, trying desperately not to sound whiny because I know he hates that.
“Your family will be there, so technically, you’re supporting the family.
All you have to do is show up, sip your scotch, and look broody in the corner.
I’ll do all the talking. It’s our first actual date, if you think about it. ”
He exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed. “When I bought you the restaurant, that was our first date.”
I gape at him. “We didn’t even eat! You signed some papers, handed me a contract, and left. That’s not a date, Rico.”
“And this is?”
“No, but it’s closer to one.” I cross my arms over my dress, tapping my heel against the floor impatiently.
“Unless you’d rather I demand a real date—fancy restaurant, expensive wine, a full four-hour affair.
” I pause, letting my next words land with maximum impact.
“And if we go that route, this dress? Stays on after.”
His scowl is instant. Intense. Like I’ve just suggested we spend the night scrapbooking instead. Which I might force him to do next if he refuses this date offer.
That expression used to scare me. Now? It’s practically his default setting. I could frame it and label it The Rico Special.
“How long until we leave?” he grumbles.
My grin is pure, unfiltered victory. “Forty minutes. Vinnie’s driving us, which I know you don’t love, but hey—at least you can drown your sorrows in whiskey without worrying about getting behind the wheel.”
He glares at me. I do not bat my lashes, because I know that doesn’t work on him.
“Fine.”
I wait until he turns down the hall before dropping the last bomb. “Oh, and I put out your suit. Freshly dry-cleaned.”
He spins on his heel, the glare of all glares locked onto me.
“You have to dress up. Look at me.” I wave my hand dramatically over my body, as if the siren-red dress I’m wearing isn’t already impossible to miss.
Rico stands there, rocking back and forth in his sneakers, hands shoved into his denim pockets like a petulant child being forced into a school play.
I’ll never get over the fact that this man has so many zeroes to his name and yet still dresses like someone who hates money.
Is it for comfort? An elaborate scheme to stay under the radar?
Some philosophical rebellion against wealth?
But after a few seconds of silent brooding, he finally exhales. “Fine. You win.”
I choose to ignore the fact that he says it through gritted teeth, or how he storms down the hallway and slams the bedroom door like an angsty teenager.
Because a win is a win.