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)
Ten years...
For ten years, all I thought of myself was as his wife, and now...
I step out into the hallway. It’s the same hallway I’ve walked for a decade, but it no longer feels like it’s part of my life. And even the clothes I’m wearing now...it doesn’t feel right either. I know I should head back to my bedroom and start packing. It’s the practical thing to do.
But I can’t.
All of my clothes and jewelries...they’re for that starry-eyed girl I once was.
That girl had allowed her husband to buy all of those things because she had been so, so stupid.
So, so stupid, God.
Because back then, I really did believe him promising not to disregard my feelings was him promising to try falling in love with me.
Oh God, I was such an idiot.
I bite my lip hard.
Be sensible, my mind urged me.
I should at least grab my wallet, but that would mean heading back to the bedroom, and I just can’t.
I don’t think I can bear seeing the same bed where he mastered my body but never touched my heart.
And so my feet start to move in another direction.
But this hurts, too.
Even with me needing to leave, I have to walk past the same flowers I arranged to brighten up the foyer, and of course they’re his favorite flowers, not mine. And then there’s the console where he drops his keys every night at exactly 6:51, the spot where I used to wait until he...
Stop it, Sienah! Stop! Just stop!
I can’t let my world revolve around him anymore. Not because I don’t want to. But because he told me to leave.
God, help me, please.
The front door looms, and I feel like throwing up.
I know if I walk out, there’s no going back.
And even though the thought terrifies me to death, I somehow find the courage to turn the handle, and a frosty evening wind hits my cheek like a slap.
Monaco glitters below, indifferent to personal catastrophes. The city pulses on, laughter from restaurants, music from clubs, life happening everywhere while I stand on my husband’s doorstep realizing I’m completely, utterly lost.
I start walking. But it doesn’t last. I get clumsy when I’m emotional, and this evening unfortunately isn’t any different. My heel catches on cobblestone, and I stumble.
Behind me, the house glows warm with light that no longer welcomes me, and I can’t stop wondering.
Is he watching me? Can I look back to see? Or has he forgotten me already?
The tears come now, hot and endless, and for the first time in ten years, I don’t wipe them away or check my makeup. For the first time in a decade, I no longer have to care about being the perfect wife to the world’s hottest F1 billionaire.
Just keep walking, Sienah.
Even if every step hurts and makes my heart break bit by bit.
Just take it one step at a time.
Even if I don’t know where I’m going from here—
When I’m afraid, I place my trust in You.
Aivan
THE TERRACE DOOR CLOSES with a click that might as well be a gunshot.
I pour myself three fingers of scotch and settle back into my chair, watching the candles she lit flicker in the Mediterranean breeze. The wax drips steady as a heartbeat onto the white linen, each drop marking another second of her theatrical exit.
One hour.
That’s all it takes for a woman to realize she’s overreacted. One hour of walking around Monaco in those heels she insists on wearing despite my repeated suggestions to choose comfort over fashion. One hour of the night air cooling her temper, of rational thought replacing emotional hysteria.
The Patek Philippe on my wrist reads 9:47.
By 10:47, she’ll walk through that door with tears in her eyes and apologies on her lips. We’ll have the kind of makeup sex that reminds me why I tolerate these periodic emotional outbursts. Hard and fast against the bedroom wall, her nails raking down my back while she gasps my name. Then slow and deep in our bed, until she’s boneless and sated and whispering those words in Italian she thinks I don’t understand.
Ti amo. Mio cuore. Sempre tuo.
The memory of her voice, husky and breathless in the dark, sends heat straight to my groin. I shift in my chair, irritated by my body’s predictable response. Ten years of marriage and she still affects me like I’m some hormone-driven teenager. It’s the one variable I’ve never been able to control, this visceral need for her that defies logic and discipline.
9:52.
The champagne sits untouched between two glasses, bubbles rising and dying in endless cycles. Dom Pérignon 1996.
Our wedding vintage.
Of course.
Everything about tonight was orchestrated for maximum emotional impact. The osso buco that takes her four hours to prepare, timed to finish exactly when I walked through the door. The candles arranged in perfect symmetry, ivory pillars she special-orders from some boutique in Paris. Even the roses scattered across the table, Sterlings from our garden because she knows they’re my grandmother’s favorite variety.