Chapter 5
ALESSIA
In winemaking, you don't negotiate with what threatens the vineyard. You prune it and move on.
But when it comes to my marriage, Chiara isn't the threat she thinks she is.
Another woman can only affect a relationship if she's allowed.
However, when she confronts me, probably driven by her own insecurities about Nico, I stand tall.
I may be the plain sister, but I am an Alighieri, and we don't allow outsiders to trample us.
So only family can walk all over you, Alessia?
Chiara waits to approach me until Matteo is pulled away by someone who needs him more than I do.
That is her first mistake—assuming I need rescuing.
"Alessia," she says warmly. "How lovely to finally have a moment."
We've spent some time together as she worked on the PR and communication regarding my wedding. Throughout our interactions, she made it clear that I was merely the wife; she was Nico's person.
Then it bothered me.
Now, I see it for what it is—and a part of me feels sorry for her. It must be hell to love a man who chose his career over her. I understand because it's hell to love a man who has chosen Chiara over me. In some ways, I think she's better off than me. She is at least with him, while I’m alone.
I offer her the same polite smile I give distant relatives and irrelevant wine aficionados. "Chiara."
She is a beautiful woman. So elegant. I can see why everyone thinks she's better suited for Nico. But he made his bed—even if I'm not sleeping in it and she is—and marriage is legally binding.
Anything else, like Chiara, is ephemeral.
She glances toward the crowd, then back at me. "You must find these events…overwhelming."
Ah, she wants to ‘other’ me.
"I grew up at the Palazzo Alighieri. I've been trained my whole life to find such events instructive, not overwhelming."
I may work with the vines—but that doesn't mean I don't know how to work a room, even if I don't like it.
Her lips curve, amused. "Well, we don't see you very often at such gatherings."
By we, I assume she means Nico and her.
"No, you don't." I look around and shrug dismissively. "I find such gatherings to be more focused on appearances rather than substance. Don't you agree?"
Her smile flickers for a heartbeat.
She recovers quickly. "You've done wonderful things with Pietra Alta. Everyone's talking about it."
Well, she is the head of communications for the House of Alighieri, so she knows how to throw out a compliment that isn't one—a reminder that my worth is conditional, that I exist in the margins of the conversation she believes she owns.
She isn't the first person to underestimate me.
I don't have Alba's bluster or Toni's wit—but I am Cesare Alighieri's daughter, and I come by my instincts for survival honestly.
"That's kind of you." I keep my tone soft, warm, even. "Though I try not to listen too closely to what everyone is saying."
Chiara gives me a long, deliberate look, recalibrates.
"I imagine this life isn't what you expected."
She's trying to get something out of me. A rise? An answer? Recognition for being Nico's? I'm not sure.
"This life is exactly what I expected," I correct her.
She titters. "I mean, being married to Nico. He can be"—she pauses for effect—"difficult."
I meet her gaze, comfortable in my skin. My father can shake my nerves, as can Nico, but Chiara Jossa? I don't think so.
"Marriage rarely resembles expectation."
Her eyes sharpen. "I've known him a long time."
"And I've known my father's groundskeeper my whole life. How is the length of knowing someone relevant?"
She takes a sip of her wine, then gestures vaguely toward the gardens. "Florence can be unforgiving to women who don't understand how things work."
I smile, genuinely this time. "Florence or Nico?" I challenge.
Her eyes widen, unsure where this is going.
"You know." I drop my voice. "I've found Florence unforgiving to women who believe proximity equals possession."
Her breath stills.
"I don't mean to offend." She's nervous now, but she's pulling it together; she knows how to. Women who work in a man's world must learn that or be erased. "I just worry you might misunderstand certain…arrangements."
Oh please! Really?
A mistress may bruise a wife’s ego, but she can’t take her place. Men who are publicly married—especially in unions built on business—don’t leave their wives, no matter the mistress. Chiara should know that.
I lean in slightly—not enough to invade her space, just enough that my voice doesn't carry.
"I don't misunderstand a thing," I murmur. "I simply don't confuse what is temporary with what is mine."
Her color fades.
"I don't know what you thought you'd achieve by speaking with me about your relationship with my husband." I succumb to my need for bluntness. I've always abhorred artifice. "But don't do it again."
Her expression fractures, astonishment slipping through the cracks.
I straighten, force my tone to pleasant civility. "If you'll excuse me."
As I step past her, she reaches out—not touching me, but close enough to be noticed.
"He's not the loyal kind, Alessia."
A dry laugh escapes me. "Chiara, I didn't marry Nico for his loyalty. I don't expect it. Hell, I don't even want it."
She narrows her eyes. "Is this real composure, or are you faking it?"
She looks surprised that she said what she did, that she thought aloud.
"My composure is hard won. It comes from knowing exactly who I am." I let out a breathy laugh and add, "And knowing precisely who I don't need to be."
I walk away without looking back.
A part of me is hurt that Nico has allowed me to be humiliated by his mistress this way. I don't believe he told her to seek me out or provoke me—but he has another woman in his bed while we are so newly married, and that is a worse degradation.
I want to leave now. My social battery is empty, and I am exhausted. This last interaction has left me profoundly wounded—and with it comes a clarity I can no longer avoid.
I see now what my efforts have amounted to.
The invitations to Tenuta Pietra Alta that I have extended to Nico again and again since our wedding.
The messages I sent him quietly, without telling a soul—wishing him a happy birthday, even though he never remembered mine.
All those small, secret overtures made in the hope of building something real.
None of them warranted a response.
And that can only mean that this marriage will continue exactly as it began.
Behind me, the party swells. Laughter, music, crystal chiming against crystal.
Somewhere across the terrace, I hear Nico's voice. When I first heard it all those months ago, I thought it was compelling, authoritative, and…yes, sexy.
I'm a pragmatist, so I know I'm not in love with my husband—I barely know him. But I'm also a romantic, and the simple fact that Nico is my husband stirs emotions in me I can't seem to control, no matter how hard I try.
No woman grows up imagining a marriage of convenience, or attending parties where her husband's mistress talks down to her.
Every woman carries some version of a fairytale, and mine has just been ripped apart.
So I don't seek Nico out. I don't need him to witness my unraveling.
Chiara may have walked away believing that she didn't rattle me—but the truth is that she shattered me.
She's made it crystal clear that I am the wife, a woman who is being tolerated, while Chiara is the mistress, a woman who is loved and adored.
I say goodbye to Matteo, who understands that I have to wake up in a few hours and get back to work.
I'm halfway to the cloakroom when Nico finds me.
He doesn't touch me at first—just steps into my path with that calm assurance that makes people move without being asked. He looks impeccable, still, as if the night hasn't cost him anything.
"You're leaving."
"Yes."
He glances past me, toward the gardens. "You're not staying the night?"
Does he want me to? Are we going to have our wedding night tonight, ninety days too late? I am not remotely prepared for that kind of intimacy with a stranger.
I shake my head. "I have to be up early."
"It's late."
"It's green harvest," I reply gently. "You know how it is."
"Can't you take a break?" he asks. "Just for one night?"
I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "If you want something from me, Nico, I need you to say it."
His brow furrows, surprised.
"We're married," he says after a moment. "I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that we spend time together. To…get to know one another."
I nod. I have no idea what to say.
"I can have a room prepared for you," he answers the question I haven't asked.
Oh, he doesn't want me to sleep with him. He just wants…what?
"I really must go, Nico. I…we start early in the morning to beat the heat," I explain.
He nods, his hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes on me.
"But, I would love to have you come stay at the mansion at Pietra Alta," I offer with a smile. "I'm considered a fairly decent cook. I could make dinner."
His eyes flicker with surprise, and he arches an eyebrow. "You want to cook for me?"
I lick my lips. "I like to cook."
"I'm busy." He hesitates and then adds, "That's why I haven't accepted any of your invitations to visit."
"I understand." I feel gauche now. Rejected and small. "Just like you have to be here to work, I have to be in Bolgheri. My vines determine my geography."
"How convenient." There is something harsh in his tone, and it grates on my already shot nerves.
"If you want to spend time with me," I interject carefully, "come to the estate."
I don't know this man. I don't know his moods well—and what I do know is that he can be volatile. I don't do well with raised voices or harsh words directed toward me. I've had a lifetime of that with my father—one would think I'd be adept at dealing with them.
His jaw tightens slightly. "You want me to make all the effort, is that it?"
I am truly lost. I don't know what he wants. I don't know how to give him what he wants if I can't understand him.
"What kind of effort?" I ask.
He shakes his head.
"Nico, I have invited you several times. I have messaged. I have received no responses. And, you haven't…you haven't—" Come to see me. Reached out to me. Made a single overture toward me.
"You came tonight."
I give him a wan smile. "I was summoned by my father." I gesture vaguely toward the gardens. "But I find he's not here tonight."
He exhales, short. "Cesare was never going to attend."
I still.
The realization settles slowly, like sediment in a glass left untouched—I'm irrelevant to my father's actual plans. He wanted me here for appearance, not presence.
I don't let any of that reach my face.
"I should go," I say instead.
He watches me closely now, as if trying to decide whether I'm retreating or regrouping.
"I'll come to Bolgheri," he says and then adds, "when I can."
"That would be nice," I reply softly, and I mean it. "Good night, Nico."
He inclines his head, accepting the distance I'm offering because it costs him nothing to do so.
As I walk away, I tell myself—again—that this is how marriages like ours work, that patience is not weakness, and that time will do what pressure cannot. And that tomorrow, the vines will still need me even if my husband doesn't.