CHAPTER 7
ROXANNE
The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that made my pulse aware of itself.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to regain composure. My heart raced like it had a mind of its own, my throat tight, and heat pooled low in my belly that made me squirm under the weight of my own thoughts. My fingers drummed against the sheets, betraying the calm I was pretending to have.
The villa was beautiful—rustic, warm wood, the kind of place that held secrets in its walls. I hadn’t asked for it. I hadn’t expected it. But Marcello had already cancelled my hotel without asking.
And I was here. And I didn’t know why. Not in the way that begged answers. In the way that made me ache. Like I’d stepped into someone else’s life and found pieces of mine scattered across the floor.
What was wrong with me?
My body had a mind of its own around him. Why was I flustered mid-flight like a teenager, nipples straining through my blouse like a neon sign announcing ‘look here’?
The uninvited wetness between my legs—had soaked through my underwear by the time we landed. I hadn’t felt that way in years. Not since I stopped wanting. Not since I stopped being wanted.
I hadn’t noticed until we landed—then wished I could crawl under a rock and stay there. It wasn’t just arousal. It was betrayal. My body betraying the woman I’d tried so hard to become.
And then the guilt crept in. My daughter. Her tiny voice. Her drawings. Her absence.
Why was I here? With him?
Who was he—really—and why did being near him make me feel anchored instead of afraid? Why did his scent settle my heartbeat? Why did the unknown feel…safe with him? Safe in a way that made no sense. Like I could follow him to the ends of the world.
There was something invisible between us. A thread. A pull. A current under my skin. And I didn’t know if it was real or if I was just tired—tired of being alone, tired of carrying everything with no one to lean on.
I dressed quickly and stepped out. Martin was waiting, silent and watchful like a shadow that never blinked.
We drove to Pisa first. The Leaning Tower stood like a question mark against the sky. A group of friendly tourists were kind enough to snap some pictures of me that I could send to my daughter.
Martin stood nearby, watching silently as a few men stood too close. I smiled politely, though clearly uncomfortable. Pretending, not very well.
Then we moved through Florence—Piazza della Signoria, the Uffizi, Ponte Vecchio. Places that should have filled me with awe. Instead, I felt hollow.
I wandered through the Boboli Gardens, letting the scent of cypress and stone settle into my skin.
Lunch was quiet at a small café tucked into a side street.
I sat alone, stirring my risotto and watching couples touching freely, casually.
Hands brushing. Shoulders leaning in. Kisses pressed without hesitation. A language my marriage had forgotten.
I envied their ease. The way they touched without asking permission. The way they belonged.
My mind drifted back to the villa—how Marcello held me, led me in, guiding me. And then, the moment he’d dropped his little bomb. So casually.
He had a wife. My stomach dropped. He didn’t tell me until he had to. But I hadn’t told him either—about my husband, my daughter, my life. My messy, unfinished life. My turmoil.
My husband never hit me, never yelled. He just… wasn’t there. Emotionally absent, mentally elsewhere. Always making me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not doing enough, not earning enough. Not present enough.
He married me when I was at my heaviest, then critiqued me into shrinking.
“Do it for yourself,” he said.
But then he’d compare me to others. We had been in love once. But that love felt like a ghost now—visible only in old photos and faded memories.
He went against his family’s wishes to marry me.
Maybe that’s why I stayed. Maybe that’s why I tolerated the distance, the lack of intimacy, the kisses that felt rehearsed for our daughter’s sake.
Maybe that’s why the suspicion—of Sahil, my business partner, of every male colleague—felt like slow poison instead of outrage.
He never understood that two professionals could build something together. Never understood me. Never cared to.
By late afternoon, I was exhausted from pretending, pretending to be fine, pretending to be whole.
“Take me back,” I told Martin.
I skipped dinner. Instead, I drank wine straight from the bottle like a savage. It warmed my chest, loosened my thoughts. Martin quietly informed me that Marcello would meet me soon. I nodded, unsure why it mattered.
I’d followed Marcello here—to Florence—and he wasn’t even around.
What had I got myself into?
Maybe I liked the idea of him? Of what he represented. The mystery? The danger? The possibility? Maybe the fact that there was an expiration date—that I would go back home and never see him again-made it easier to want him.
My heart and mind clawed at each other.
I told myself I could do this trip alone. I had done it today. I could do it for the next twelve days too.
I took the wine bottle—liquid courage—and walked up to my room. I stared at his door a beat too long, hoping he was behind it, hoping he would apologise for forgetting he’d promised me this.
I changed into satin shorts and a matching shirt. I stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing over me. My nipples hardened instantly, but I didn’t care; I was too busy soaking in the night, letting it hold me as I simply breathed, sipped, and lived.
I turned on my playlist—songs that grounded me when everything else spun out of control. I let my hair loose and started swaying my hips.
Then Beyoncé’s Naughty Girl came on. The wine slipped into my bloodstream like a dare and took over me.
I lifted the bottle, took another sip, and let the music claim me. My hands slid over my hips, up my waist, cupping my breasts softly, teasingly, before gliding into my hair. I used the railing as a prop, dropping down slow, rising hips-first like I was performing for an audience that didn’t exist.
I was shedding every expectation, every silence, every version of me that had swallowed pain without sound.
I was so lost in the rhythm that I didn’t notice him.
Marcello.
Watching me from the adjoining balcony. I hadn’t heard him.
A towel hung low around his hips, beads of water tracing the ridges of his chest and stomach. His muscles moved like shadows carved from stone as he shifted. I stood there still, breath catching, heartbeat frantic. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from him.
He wasn’t supposed to see me unravelling like this.
Raw and exposed. But he did. And then his eyes moved over my body slowly, devouring me with his eyes.
My body responded before my mind could catch up.
Heat surged between my legs, slick and sudden.
My satin shorts clung to me, and I panicked—they were thin.
Too thin. And I wore nothing underneath.
The wine buzzed loud in my veins. He dragged one hand through his wet hair, water sliding down his torso. His gaze dipped to my undone buttons, my half-exposed breasts, my stiff nipples.
He inhaled sharply. His towel shifted and I noticed the unmistakable arousal beneath it. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it. And the sight of him—thick, undeniable—sent a fresh rush of heat through me.
My breath stuttered. My thighs squeezed again. I stepped back, then I bolted inside.
I paced the room like a trapped wildcat. My skin burned, and my pulse hammered. My mind spun.
What was happening to me?
I wanted him. God, I wanted him.
Not just the body. I wanted the way he looked at me—like I was something he wanted too. I walked to the door between our rooms. My hand shook as I unlocked it. And then I waited. Nothing.
I didn’t know what I was asking for. Just that I wanted to be seen, to be touched, known. Even if only for one night. Maybe I didn’t want him to come. Maybe I did. Maybe I just wanted to stop feeling alone.
I turned away from the door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I wrapped my arms around my neck, gripping the collar of my shirt like it was the only thing keeping me together.
And I stood there—half undressed, wine-warm, trembling with want and confusion—waiting for something to break.