The Sicilian Billionaire’s Accidental Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

Prologue

CHELSEA CHECKED HER smartwatch.

How strange.

She gazed at the numbers, but they didn’t change. Her heart was still able to beat normally even when a single conversation had just broken it into pieces.

Her gaze turned to her stepmother’s retreating back, but tears blurred everything before she could make sense of it. Francesca was already through the cafe door, not rushing, not looking back. The way a person left when they’d done what they came to do, and the aftermath was someone else’s problem.

The cafe kept going around her. Someone laughed at the table behind her.

A barista called out a name. The trailing plants above the counter swayed in the draft from the door, and Chelsea sat there with her hands wrapped around a chamomile tea that had gone cold, and her fingers were trembling so badly that the liquid inside the cup was making small, concentric circles.

She’d seen those circles before.

In the bath. This morning. When her husband’s hands had moved through her hair and the water had rippled—

Stop it, Chels.

This morning was a different world, and so it no longer felt right to remember that time. When she had woken up in his arms this morning, and he had kissed her forehead, and she had kissed him back...

When she had stood in the foyer in his stolen t-shirt and already counting the minutes before they could be together again...

That world was gone.

And it might never even have been real.

But now though...

This world she was living in now...hurt.

And it hurt even more when her phone buzzed, and a part of her just wanted to hide and pretend and lie to herself. But this world had somehow turned her into a masochist, and she ended up looking anyway.

Olivio.

He was texting her...like usual. And honestly, she’d been like everyone else in the past, thinking that a billionaire like Olivio Cannizzaro would think of texting as beneath him. People should be the one calling and sending him messages, not the other way around.

And yet...in the nine days they’d been married, Olivio had texted her.

All the time.

And she used to think (foolishly, she realized now) his texts were proof that she was important. But now, oh God...

How is your day, tesoro?

The preview on the screen was enough to show the entirety of his message, and every word just..

.hurt. It wasn’t so long ago that this message would’ve made Chelsea bite her lip in an effort to keep her lips from forming another silly little smile.

It wasn’t so long ago that she would’ve been quick to text him back, shyly but eagerly, because it meant so much to know that her very busy husband remembered her and wanted to know about her day.

But now, though...

The message was a blur like the rest of her surroundings, the tears making it impossible to see everything clearly with her eyes while the pain made it impossible for her heart to understand anything.

Her hands were shaking so badly it took a while before she could even dig her phone out of her purse, and it took three painful attempts to even scroll through her contacts just to find Edgar’s name and hit the Call button.

So far, blinking rapidly had kept the tears at bay, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She knew it was painfully inevitable, and that sooner or later...

Is this really happening, God?

Can't this just be a dream?

Please.

Edgar answered on the second ring, his voice gruff and warm at the same time. “Perfect timing, child. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this foundation—”

“I’m s-sorry, but c-can I ask you a question first?” She’d already cut him off before she realized what she was doing, and the guilt was terrible and instant.

This isn't me. So why am I doing it?

She had never cut someone off, but here she was, doing exactly that, and all because she got her heart broken?

“What’s wrong, Chelsea?”

The concern in the older man’s tone only made her feel more ashamed.

I don't want to be like this, God. I don't want to change, I don't want to start hurting people just because someone hurt me first.

Her fingers tightened around her phone, and she found herself choking out an apology. “I’m sorry for cutting you off.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I know you, child. Tell me what’s wrong. What do you want to ask?”

Her gaze strayed to her smartwatch. How strange, she thought again. The numbers were still within the normal range even as the pain kept growing. Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard several times before she could finally manage to ask—

“Do you k-know anything about the Marquez deal? Is it...is it t-true that he only stayed married to me to close it?”

The question gave birth to the most awful silence, and it just made her hurt more and more because she knew how Edgar’s mind worked, and so that awful, awful silence was an answer in itself.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea...”

She nearly threw up the moment she heard the words.

God, oh God.

Because she knew Edgar, and she knew he was a problem solver. She knew he wasn’t the type to just say things without thinking them through, and so for him to start with an apology—

Oh God.

It was akin to Edgar admitting that her marriage, oh God...

“S-So it’s true then?”

“It...could be.”

Oh, the heaviness in his tone.

It was terrible to hear, so, so hopelessly terrible that it caused her phone to slip from her suddenly nerveless fingers before landing face-up on the table.

Memories hit her, not in order, and not gently either. They came the way pain came, all at once, from everywhere, with no regard for what she could bear.

She remembered the dinner from three nights ago, and the older couple who’d welcomed her with incredible warmth. She remembered feeling shy but also giddy, with how Olivio had his arm around her waist as he introduced her to their hosts. Their names meant nothing out of the ordinary back then.

But it did so now, for the couple was none other than Jun and Miriam...Marquez.

“Are you still there, Chelsea?”

The worry drew her out of her thoughts, but it was just like leaving one hurtful world for another. “Y-Yes. I’m still here.”

“Talk to him about it, Chelsea,” the older man urged. “I’m not lying when I say I can’t be sure. The topic never came up. I only say it’s possible because everyone knows about the Marquezes—”

Edgar broke off, no longer able to speak because of the sound coming from the other end of the line.

Oh, child.

It was his worst fears come true.

His goddaughter, innocent, earnest, and so terribly in love with Olivio Cannizzaro, was crying, and the sound of her sobs could only come from a girl whose heart had just shattered.

Kelly had watched everything unfold from a distance, and it was like waiting for a train wreck to happen.

It was only out of respect for Chelsea’s unspoken request that she hadn’t interfered, had even gone against the very protocols Chelsea’s own husband had established by not making a call to let the billionaire know what was happening.

But the moment she saw the younger woman start to cry—

“Chelsea, tell me what’s wrong.”

Kelly was by her side in an instant, and this close, it just hurt even more, being this near and no longer being able to hear anything. It was as if the pain was too much that Chelsea couldn’t even make a sound.

It was only over a week ago that Kelly had been assigned to handle Chelsea’s schedule, but in that short span of time, she had already seen everything there was to see with the billionaire’s wife.

Because Chelsea was the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, the type whose kindness was instinctive rather than a choice, and so, to see this girl who seemed to wake up each day with this joyful need to help others—

It hurt to feel this helpless, to just stand there and watch because Kelly instinctively knew there truly was nothing she could do.

And then her gaze fell on the phone lying face-up on the table, its screen still lit, and the five words glowing there told her everything she needed to know.

How is your day, tesoro?

It was Olivio who broke Chelsea’s heart. And Kelly didn’t know if a man who didn’t have one could ever put the pieces back together.