4. Cat
— ? —
Cat
A year ago, I wake up alone.
The sheets on his side are cold, the pillow barely dented. If it weren’t for the memory of his voice asking permission at every turn, I might convince myself last night never happened at all.
He was so careful with me. So patient. And now he’s gone without a word, like the tenderness was a transaction completed.
Wedding night: handled. Moving on.
Fine. If that’s how he wants to play this, I can play too.
The first month is cold.
We pass each other in hallways like strangers sharing a hotel. Dinner is a performance, both of us at opposite ends of a table built for twelve, making polite conversation about nothing.
“How was your day?” he asks one evening, not looking up from his phone.
“Fine. Yours?”
“Busy.”
“Sounds it.”
He glances up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that you’re always busy. Very important. Lots of meetings.”
“I have responsibilities.”
“Of course you do. Far be it from me to interrupt those with something as trivial as conversation.”
His jaw tightens. “If you have something to say, Caterina, say it.”
“I don’t have anything to say. Apparently neither do you.”
We stare at each other across twelve feet of mahogany. He goes back to his phone. I go back to my wine.
By week four, I’ve convinced myself that the wedding night was what I had feared it would be, despite everything he said: a transaction. A courtesy extended once, to ease the transition.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
Then ABBA happens.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I think I’m alone. Max is in meetings, always in meetings, and the staff has learned to give me space when I’m in the den with my laptop.
I need to move. I need to not think.
I plug my phone into the speakers, crank the volume, and let “Dancing Queen” wash over me like a baptism.
The thing about ABBA is that it’s impossible to be sad while listening to it. Sometimes you just need to shake your ass and pretend your life isn’t a disaster.
I’m on the couch, dancing, rhythmic flailing, really, singing at the top of my lungs. The chorus hits and I shimmy backward onto the cushions, using the back of the sofa as a dance partner.
And then I see him.
Massimo Moretti is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, mouth twitching like he’s fighting something.
I freeze mid-shimmy. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see the full choreography. The hip work was particularly inspired.”
“I thought I was alone!”
“Clearly,” he says, entirely unrepentant.
“You’re supposed to be in meetings.”
“Meeting ended early. Lucky me.”
He laughs. Not a polite chuckle, a real laugh, full-bodied, startled out of him. His eyes crinkle. His shoulders shake. He looks ten years younger.
I’m so shocked that I jerk backward, lose my balance, and go over the back of the couch.
The crash is spectacular. I take out a lamp, land hard on my wrist, and end up sprawled on the floor in a tangle of cushions.
“Shit-” He’s across the room in three strides. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I try to push myself up and gasp when pain shoots through my wrist. “Maybe not totally fine.”
“Let me see.” His hands are careful as he examines the swelling. “Can you move your fingers?”
“Sort of. It’s just a sprain.”
“Just a sprain.” He looks exasperated. “We’re getting this x-rayed.”
“That’s unnecessary-”
“Caterina. I’m taking you to get this looked at. That’s not a request.”
“Fine. But I’m not getting in a car with you if you’re going to be weird about the ABBA thing.”
“I’m not going to be weird about it.”
He’s already got the keys, already at the door, immovable in that particular way that makes arguing pointless and infuriating at once.
“You’re smirking.”
“This is my concerned face.”
“Your concerned face looks a lot like your making-fun-of-me face.”
“Interesting observation. Get in the car.”
The clinic takes two hours. X-rays confirm a sprain; I’ll need a brace for three weeks minimum.
Max waits the entire time. He doesn’t check his phone once.
When we get home, he walks me to my room.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” he says quietly.
“It’s not your fault I have the spatial awareness of a drunk giraffe.”
“Still.” He pauses. “For what it’s worth, the dancing was joyful. I’ve never seen anyone that joyful over a song before. It was nice.”
I don’t know what to do with that, him standing there saying words like joyful in his low, serious voice.
“Well,” I manage. “Now you have.”
“Now I have. Goodnight, Caterina.”
I shut the door and lean against it, heart hammering.
That was the first real conversation we’ve had since the wedding night.
The brace changes everything.
Next morning, he’s at the table, not at the far end, but beside my seat. My plate is made up. When I sit, he reaches over and starts cutting my food.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re cutting my frittata like I’m five.”
He’s got my fork in one hand, methodically dismantling my breakfast like it’s a hostile negotiation.
“Can you cut it yourself with one hand?”
“I could figure it out.”
“Show me.”
I try to take the utensils. The motion pulls at my wrist and I wince.
“That’s what I thought.” He finishes cutting. “Stop being stubborn and eat.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’m being independent.”
“You’re being difficult. Independence is admirable. Refusing help to prove a point is foolish.”
“Did you just call me foolish?”
“I called your behavior foolish. You, specifically, are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”
I stare at him. “That’s weirdly nice.”
“I’m a weirdly nice person. Eat.”
Over the next three weeks, Massimo Moretti cancels more meetings than I can count.
“You’re hovering,” I tell him on day five.
“I’m not hovering. I’m present.”
“You’re present in every room I enter. That’s hovering.”
“You fell off a couch because I walked into a room. Forgive me for being cautious.”
He nods at the empty place on the side table where the lamp stood, entirely unrepentant.
“I am not a hazard to myself.”
“The lamp you destroyed would disagree.”
“That lamp had it coming.”
He laughs again, that real laugh I’m starting to crave.
The chess games start on day six.
I mention I used to play with my grandfather.
“You play chess?” he asks.
“Well enough.”
“How well is ‘well enough’?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
The next evening, there’s a board set up in his study.
“I should warn you,” I say, settling across from him. “I’m pathologically competitive. I once reduced my brother to tears during Monopoly.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-three.”
His eyebrows rise. “Impressive.”
“I don’t believe in letting people win.”
“Good. Neither do I.”
He plays aggressively, classic power opening, controlling the center, pushing hard. It’s smart. Intimidating. The kind of chess that wins against most opponents.
I’m not most opponents.
“Your queen is exposed,” I say on move nine.
“My queen is exactly where I want her.”
“Your queen is about to be captured by a bishop you forgot about six moves ago.”
“I didn’t forget. I’m drawing you out.”
“You’re overextended with no defensive support.”
“That’s what I want you to think.”
I capture the queen. His face goes carefully blank.
“Checkmate in three,” I say.
He studies the board, sees it, and sits back. “Where did you learn to play like this?”
“My grandfather was a grandmaster before he came to America.”
“A grandmaster.”
“He taught me to see patterns. To think twelve moves ahead. You play like you’re trying to overwhelm your opponent. All offense.”
“And you?”
He resets the board without waiting for my answer, each piece clicking into its square with the focus he probably brings to everything he actually wants.
“I play like I’m trying to understand them.”
“Set it up again.”
“You want to lose twice?”
“I want to understand what I’m missing.”
We play again. He adapts, pulls back, plays more cautiously, actually thinks before moving. It’s a better game. I still win, but it takes longer.
“Again,” he says.
“Max-”
“I’m not trying to beat you. I’m trying to learn.”
We play nine more times. By the end, he’s not winning, but he’s making me work for it.
“You’re exceptional,” he says finally.
“I’m practiced.”
“No. You see things other people don’t. I want to understand how your mind works.”
Nobody has ever said that to me before.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask.
“Same time tomorrow.”
The chess games become our ritual.
Every evening, his study, whiskey I barely touch and he nurses for hours. The games get longer, more complex, more interesting. He stops playing to win and starts playing to understand, and somehow that makes him a better opponent than brute force ever did.
“You’re stalling,” I say on night four, watching him contemplate a move he should have made five minutes ago.
“I’m strategizing.”
“You’re avoiding the inevitable. Your king is cornered in six moves no matter what you do.”
“Seven moves.”
“Six. You’re forgetting my bishop.”
He hovers a hand over his knight, reconsiders, hovers again. I’ve never seen a man so devoted to a doomed position.
“I’m not forgetting your bishop. I’m ignoring your bishop because I have a plan.”
“Your plan involves losing your remaining rook and both knights.”
“Sacrifices must be made.”
“For what? You’re not gaining position. You’re just… delaying.”
He looks up from the board, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Maybe I like the delay. Maybe I’m not in a hurry to finish.”
“That’s a terrible chess philosophy.”
“It’s working for me.”
“You’re losing.”
“Am I?” He moves his rook, exactly where I expected, exactly wrong. “I’m sitting in my study with good whiskey and interesting company. By some metrics, I’m winning.”
“By chess metrics, you’re about to be demolished.”
“Then demolish me. I’ll set up the board again.”
I take his rook. He doesn’t even look disappointed.
Night six, he surprises me.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” he says, moving his opening pawn. “The grandmaster.”
“Why?”