Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
The last entry: Three words. I can’t believe it. He’s finally going to tell me...that.
I close the journal with a snap. This is what she’s been doing? Documenting every moment, analyzing every gesture, waiting for something I never promised?
The anger burns hotter.
She knew what this was. A business arrangement that happened to include good sex. I never lied. Never pretended. Never gave her false hope.
Did I?
5:47 AM.
The coffee maker beeps. No barefoot steps on the stairs. No sleepy smile. No sugar cube dropped in with trembling fingers.
Fine.
I drink it black. The way I did before her. The way I will after.
Day Two.
Still nothing. No calls, no texts. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. The silence should be peaceful. Instead, it grates like an unbalanced tire at high speed.
She’s making a point.
I skip training. Not because of her. The telemetry data needs analysis. The new wing design requires approval. I have work that doesn’t involve chasing after a woman having a tantrum.
Luigi texts asking if I’m sick.
I don’t respond.
By evening, the anger has evolved into something colder. She’s not at any hotel in Monaco. Her car remains in the garage. Her passport in the safe.
Someone is helping her. Hiding her.
From me.
The audacity of it sets my teeth on edge.
Day Three.
I break first. The admission tastes like bile, but I need information.
“What do you want?” Luigi’s voice holds none of its usual warmth.
“Is she with you?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games with me, old man.”
A pause. “No. She’s not with me. But if she was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He hangs up.
On me.
Luigi, who I’ve made rich with bonuses, hangs up like I’m nobody.
The disrespect spreads like a disease. My assistant avoids eye contact. The housekeeper cleans with aggressive efficiency, slamming drawers. Even the doorman’s greeting sounds forced.
She’s turned them all against me. Somehow made me the villain in her little drama.
The fury builds like pressure in an overheated engine.
Day Four.
I call Eusebio, and I’m not surprised that the older man answers like he’s been expecting my call.
“Signor...”
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
One word. Like I’m some kind of threat she needs protection from.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Your father instructed me to monitor the situation. Family orders.”
My father. Of course. Even now, pulling strings, interfering where he has no business.
“She’s my wife—”
“Who left, signore. Of her own free will.”
The implication hangs between us. That I drove her away. That this is my fault.
“Where. Is. She.”
A long pause. “With Adriano. Your lawyer friend. His wife is taking care of her.”
Ah.
I trust Adriano and Shayla. She really is safe then. But why doesn’t that feel enough?
“How long has she been there?”
“Since that first night, signore. She needed somewhere safe to go.”
Because I threw her out.
I end the call without another word.
Day Five.
The investigator I hire confirms it. She’s been at Adriano’s villa this entire time. Playing victim. Turning my friends against me. Making me look like some kind of monster who drove his perfect wife away.
The narrative writes itself. Poor Sienah, married to the heartless champion who wouldn’t say he loved her. Such a tragedy. Such a waste.
I bet she cries pretty tears on Shayla’s shoulder. I bet she tells them how hard she tried, how long she waited, how much she gave up.
Does she mention the cars? The jewels? The life of luxury I provided?
Does she mention ten years of fidelity when I could have anyone?
Does she mention the hours I spent between her thighs, making her scream my name?
Of course not. That doesn’t fit her victim narrative.
The rage builds with each passing hour. She wants to paint me as the villain? She wants to destroy what we built over three words?
So be it.
Day Six.
I see it clearly now. The manipulation. The emotional blackmail. Ten years of playing the perfect wife, all building to this moment. This ultimatum.
Say you love me or lose me.
She overplayed her hand.
I don’t respond to ultimatums. I don’t negotiate with emotional terrorists. And I certainly don’t chase after women who think they can control me with theatrical exits.
If she wants to leave, let her leave.
If she wants to play victim, let her play.
But she’ll learn what it means to cross me. What it means to humiliate me in front of my city, my friends, my family.
Day Seven.
A week.
One week of this farce. One week of her hiding at Adriano’s, playing the wounded dove while I’m painted as the monster.
No more.
I’ve let this go on long enough. Let her have her moment of drama. Let her think she’s won something.
Time to remind her who she’s dealing with.
The papers are drawn up within hours. Every detail carefully crafted. Every clause designed for maximum impact. She wants to walk away? Fine. But she’ll walk away with nothing.
Just like she came to me with nothing.
The scotch goes down smooth now. No burn. No ache. Just cold clarity.
She thinks she knows loss? She’s about to learn what it means to challenge a man who’s never lost a race he was determined to win.