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)
Day seven dawns gray and overcast. I wake feeling different. Lighter somehow, despite the persistent ache in my chest. For the first time in a week, I don’t immediately reach for Aivan’s pillow.
I pad downstairs to find Shayla battling the coffee maker.
“Come on,” she mutters, giving it a tap. “Work with me here.”
“Need help?”
“No, we have an understanding. It works when it feels like it, and I don’t throw it out the window.” Another tap, and coffee starts brewing. “See? Negotiation.”
I smile, a real one. “You’re good at that. Making difficult things work.”
She hands me a mug. “Years of practice.”
We drink our coffee in companionable silence. Outside, Monaco begins its daily transformation from sleepy coastal town to playground for the wealthy. Somewhere out there, Aivan’s probably already at the track, pushing himself and his car to the limit. Does he think of me at all? Or has he already boxed me away, another completed chapter in his perfectly organized life?
“I keep praying for strength,” I say, surprising myself. “Every night. Asking God to help me understand.”
“And?”
“Still waiting for answers.” I take another sip. “But the waiting feels...different now. Less desperate.”
She nods. “Sometimes that’s the answer. The ability to wait without drowning.”
“I just wish I knew what He wants me to do.”
“Maybe for now, He just wants you to breathe.”
Before I can respond, we hear the front door. Adriano enters the kitchen, already loosening his tie. His expression is grim, and my heart sinks.
He then exchanges a look with Shayla, and I just know.
“Something’s wrong.”
I just know it in my heart.
“I’m sorry, Sienah.”
Whatever this may be, God, please...
“He’s filed for divorce.”
Be with me.
I look at Adriano, and a hysterical laugh escapes me. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He takes a breath. Shayla reaches for my hand.
“I’m sorry about this, Sienah.” His voice is too gentle. “The lawyer representing him is Myca Villareal.”
No.
The mug I’m holding slips from numb fingers, shattering on the floor, and coffee spreads across the tiles like blood.
No.
I’m vaguely aware of Shayla moving, of hands guiding me away from the broken ceramic, of being settled into another chair. But all I can think is—
No.
Why would he do this?
Was it not enough that he’s divorcing me?
He had to get his ex as his lawyer, too?
Aivan
SHE’S HERE.
The knowledge hits like a fist to my solar plexus the moment I walk into Adriano’s living room. Every nerve ending in my body fires at once, a full-system alert that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the pull that’s defined my existence for ten years. My pulse jumps from sixty to one-twenty in the span of a heartbeat. I can feel it pounding in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes. I don’t need to see her to know. After ten years, my body recognizes hers like a missing piece clicking into place, an awareness that bypasses my brain entirely and goes straight to my bones.
Seven days without her vanilla-and-flowers scent on my sheets. Seven days without her soft breathing beside me in the dark. Seven days of waking up and reaching for warmth that isn’t there.
Dio.
The urge to find her overwhelms every other thought. My hands clench at my sides, knuckles going white. I want to haul her into my arms the second she appears. Want to fist my hands in her hair and kiss her until she stops this nonsense. Until she melts against me the way she always does, whispers those Italian endearments she thinks I don’t understand, comes home where she belongs.
Stop making this so hard, I want to roar. Just come back. Let things be the way they were.
Or maybe I want to beg.
The thought makes fury rise in my throat like acid, burning away the weakness. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Aivan Cannizzaro doesn’t beg. Not for championships, not for contracts, and certainly not for women. Even if that woman is my wife. Even if her absence feels like driving with no brakes, careening toward a wall at two hundred miles an hour.
“Aivan. Thank you for coming.” Adriano rises from his chair, all courtesy and hidden steel.
I force my face into its usual mask, though my skin feels too tight, like it might crack if I move wrong. “Where is she?”
“My wife is showing her the powder room.” His eyes assess me like I’m a hostile witness. Takes in the shadows under my eyes that concealer couldn’t hide, the tension in my jaw that’s become permanent, the way my hands won’t quite stay still. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Something stronger?”
“Just get on with it.”
Myca’s heels click against the marble as she enters behind me, sharp staccato sounds that grate against my already frayed nerves. “Darling, don’t be rude. Adriano’s being very accommodating.” Her hand slides up my arm in a gesture that makes my skin crawl, and I have to fight against the urge to shove her away. “After all, this is a delicate situation.”