Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I head back to my own room to get dressed for brunch. I choose a light sundress, pale yellow with a subtle floral print, and pair it with a cropped denim jacket and comfortable flats. The other wives will probably be decked out in designer gowns and sky-high heels, but I don’t want that today. I want to feel effortless. Casual. Like I’m not trying too hard. Plus, I’ll be heading to the studio afterward, and I don’t want to be clacking around in heels with clay on my hands.
I head downstairs, still thinking about the brunch, when I hear the rustle of a trash bag in the kitchen. I freeze for a second, heart giving a little jump, then relax when I realize it must be Rebecca, Ricci’s housekeeper who comes three times a week. I arrive at the kitchen entrance and she turns around to face me. She’s in her late sixties with kind eyes. She smiles.
“Good morning, Mrs. Santori.”
“Hi, Rebecca,” I say, returning the smile even though my cheeks feel a little warm at the title. “Sorry we left a mess last night.”
She laughs. “If you don’t leave a mess, I’ll be out of a job.”
I grin and grab a quick piece of fruit from the counter. Then I head out to my dreaded brunch.
The women are meeting at a high-end spot inside one of those luxurious malls overlooking the river. It is the kind of place where everything feels expensive and effortless at the same time. I arrive right on time and spot them immediately: the wives are already seated at a table by the huge windows, sunlight glints off their diamond jewelry. They’re overdressed, every single one of them. Designer dresses, designer heels, and designer bags galore.
I feel their eyes on me as I approach the table. The stares are polite on the surface, but I feel their subtle condescension underneath. It makes my skin prickle. I sit down, smile, smooth my sundress over my thighs, and start counting the minutes until I can leave.
The river sparkles beyond the glass, but all I can see is the avid curiosity in their cunning faces.
Chapter Fifty-Four
VIOLA
Annie makes the introductions.
A smooth, practiced circle of names to match perfectly polished smiles. I sit here with my hands folded neatly in my lap, and I let their names wash over me. I nod at the right moments, murmur the expected “Nice to meet you,” but inside I’m already detaching, watching everything from a safe distance the way I’ve learned to do for years.
Then the segue happens.
Effortless. Inevitable. The way these women always steer the conversation exactly where they want it to go, like they’ve choreographed the entire morning.
One of them leans forward. If I remember correctly, her name is Suzie. She has sharp cheekbones and perfectly arched brows. Her diamond earrings catch the sunlight streaming through the tall windows and flash like tiny blades. She tilts her head, the smile on her lips never quite reaching her eyes.
“So,” Suzie says, her voice deceptively light, “this has to be the fastest wedding in the history of weddings.” She lets the words hang there like a challenge.
Another woman, Mariella, I believe, chimes in right on cue, her tone bright but edged with unmistakable envy. “How did that even happen?”
All eyes turn to me.
My heart is thumping against my ribs, but I keep my expression perfectly calm. The cool mask I perfected over years of living in Salvatore’s suffocating house slides into place effortlessly — smooth, impenetrable, the only thing that has ever kept me safe.
I’ve rehearsed this answer in my head many times. Clean. Simple. Safe.
“It was of mutual benefit,” I say quietly. “I had information that could help him in his new role, and he offered me safety and security.”
The words leave my lips with the practiced ease of someone who has spent four years learning exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back. I don’t elaborate. I don’t smile. I simply meet their gazes one by one, letting the statement sit there between us like a closed door.
For a moment, no one speaks.
I can feel the subtle shift in the air — the way their smiles tighten just a fraction, the flicker of surprise mixed with something sharper, hungrier. They hadn’t expected me to answer so directly and yet give nothing away. They’d wanted more. They always want more.
But I’ll give them nothing else.
Suzie is first to speak, her words dripping with fake sweetness and a subtle mocking undertone that makes the rest of them lean in a fraction. “Must be nice.”
Another one, I’ve already forgotten her name jumps in, her tone saccharine. “My husband says he married me for love, yikes I guess.”
The dig is clear — sharp, deliberate, meant to cut. It should sting. Part of me waits for the familiar twist of shame or anger, but instead I feel a flicker of dark amusement. I don’t care. Not really. Their opinions have never mattered to me, and they matter even less now. I simply sip my mimosa, letting the cool bubbles dance across my tongue, and say nothing.