5. Pietro
— ? —
Pietro
The whiskey in my glass catches the light from the conference room windows, amber and gold and completely untouched. I’ve been holding it for twenty minutes, turning it slowly, watching the liquid shift and settle while voices wash over me in waves I’m only half hearing.
“…the venue confirmation came through this morning…”“…still need final approval on the press list…”“…Serena thinks we should adjust the timing of the reveal…”
I nod at the appropriate moments, make the appropriate sounds of agreement or concern, play the role of the man in charge even though some essential part of me has drifted loose from this room, this meeting, this endless machinery of launch preparation.
I can’t name the day it started.
That’s what keeps circling through my mind, underneath the logistics and the decisions and the thousand small emergencies that demand my attention.
I can’t point to a calendar and say there, that’s when the distance began.
It happened slowly, the way a rope frays - one thread at a time, so gradually you don’t notice until you lean your weight on it and find nothing there.
Ariah used to be the loudest thing in any room she entered.
Not literally - she’s not a shouter, my wife - but there was a quality to her presence, a kind of vibrant certainty that drew every eye.
The first time I saw her, at the merger negotiations that would eventually make her my wife, she was arguing with my lawyers about intellectual property rights, and I remember thinking: this woman is going to be trouble.
I was right. She was trouble, the best kind. The kind that challenges and provokes and refuses to let you settle for less than you’re capable of.
She built Maison d’Emery from nothing, from a rented room and a secondhand jeweler’s bench and a vision so clear it was almost aggressive.
She was twenty-four years old and fearless, and when my mother proposed the merger as a way to absorb a promising competitor, I took one look at Ariah Emery and thought: you have no idea who you’re dealing with.
Neither did I, as it turned out.
We married for business reasons, but somewhere along the way, somewhere between the awkward first months and the slow revelation of who we actually were beneath the contract, I fell in love with her.
With her stubbornness and her laugh and the way she looked at three in the morning, bent over her workbench with a loupe pressed to her eye, so focused on her craft that she forgot I was there.
When did that woman disappear?
When did the fire go out of her, the certainty fade, the loud presence contract into something quiet and waiting? I keep trying to trace it back, to find the moment when everything shifted, but there’s no single point.
Just a gradual dimming, so slow I didn’t notice until I looked up one day and found a stranger in my house.
“Pietro?” Serena’s voice cuts through my thoughts, professionally concerned. “The timeline?”
“Yes. Fine.” I set down the untouched whiskey. “Whatever you think is best.”
She nods, making a note on her tablet, and I watch her move through the room with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where she belongs.
My mother chose well, bringing her in - Serena is competent, polished, perfectly suited to the public face of this launch. She fits into my world the way Ariah never quite managed to, all smooth edges and family connections and an instinctive understanding of how the game is played.
It should make things easier. Instead, it makes me uneasy in ways I can’t articulate.
“Your mother called,” Serena says, sliding into the chair beside me as the others file out for a break. “She wanted to make sure you knew about the fitting tomorrow. For the gala.”
“I know about the fitting.”
“And she mentioned that Ariah seemed tired, the last time she visited. She’s worried about her.”
I look at Serena, trying to read what’s beneath the surface of her words. My mother worries about Ariah the way a cat worries about a mouse - with focused attention and very specific intentions. “Ariah’s fine.”
“Of course. I just thought you should know.” She smiles, all warmth and concern. “It can’t be easy for her, being home with the children while you’re so busy. She must feel very… isolated.”
“She has help. Rosa, the staff…”
“It’s not the same as having a partner, though, is it?” Serena tilts her head, studying me. “Someone to share the load. To be there when things are hard.”
The words land uncomfortably close to something I don’t want to examine. I think of last night - Ariah’s hands on my shoulders, the surprising intimacy of her touch, the way we reached for each other in the dark like we were trying to remember something we’d forgotten.
I left before she woke up this morning, because the meetings started early and there was no time, and now I’m wondering if I should have stayed.
“Ariah is content,” I hear myself say, and I recognize my mother’s voice in the words, my mother’s certainty. “She wanted to step back from work when the twins were born. She wanted the quieter life.”
Did she, though? Or did I just assume that because it was easier than looking too closely at what the marriage was costing her?
“I’m sure you’re right,” Serena says, and there’s something in her smile I don’t quite trust. “Anyway. The press list needs your final sign-off, and we should discuss the seating arrangement for the gala dinner.”
I nod, and we discuss the press list, and I push down the creeping sense that something important is slipping through my fingers while I’m not paying attention.
* * *
It’s nearly midnight when I finally get home, and the house is dark except for the light in the kitchen, left on for me the way it always is.
I stand in the foyer for a moment, listening to the silence, and I think about all the nights I’ve come home like this - to a sleeping house, a cold dinner, a wife already in bed because she gave up waiting hours ago.
I should be better at this. I should be the husband she deserves, the father my children need, the man I always meant to become.
But the company keeps expanding and the demands keep multiplying and there’s never enough time, never enough of me to go around, and somehow the family keeps ending up at the bottom of the list even though they should be at the top.
I climb the stairs quietly, pausing outside the twins’ room.
The door is cracked, the way Ariah always leaves it, and I can see them in the glow of the nightlight - Luca sprawled across his bed with his arms flung out, Lucy curled in a tight ball under her covers, both of them so small and perfect that my chest aches looking at them.
Four years old.
When did that happen? It feels like yesterday they were newborns, red-faced and screaming, and Ariah was exhausted and beautiful and we were both terrified we’d break them.
Now they have opinions and preferences and complicated inner lives, and I’ve missed so much of it, always working, always one more meeting, one more deal, one more crisis that can’t wait.
“I’m going to be better,” I whisper to their sleeping faces. “After the launch. I promise. I’m going to be here more. I’m going to be the father you deserve.”
Luca shifts in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and I freeze, not wanting to wake him. But he settles again, thumb finding its way to his mouth even though we’re supposed to be breaking that habit, and I feel a wave of love so intense it’s almost painful.
I remember, suddenly, that Luca has a doctor’s appointment next week. Something about his nut allergy, a follow-up to make sure his emergency medication is still the right dosage.
Ariah handles all of that. The appointments, the careful reading of labels, the constant vigilance that keeps our son safe. She carries the weight of it so completely that I sometimes forget it’s there.
What else have I let her carry alone?
I close the door quietly and continue down the hall to our bedroom.
Ariah is asleep, her hair spread across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek the way she always sleeps.
She looks tired even in sleep, the faint shadows under her eyes visible in the dim light, and I remember how she felt last night, thin, almost fragile, like something had been wearing away at her when I wasn’t looking.
I undress quietly and slide into bed beside her, and she stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. I want to reach for her, to pull her close the way I used to, but something stops me. The distance between us feels tangible suddenly, a physical thing occupying the space where intimacy used to live.
Two more days until the anniversary. Four more days until the launch.
I’ll make it up to her. The missed dinners, the early mornings, the slow drift of years. I’ll be there for the anniversary dinner she’s planning, and after the launch I’ll restructure my schedule, make time for the family, be present in a way I haven’t been.
I tell myself this as I fall asleep, and I almost believe it.
The launch machinery tightens around me, and somewhere in the depths of the night, I promise sleeping faces that I’ll be a better father.
Once this is done.