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)
No.
Were.
Were her favorite variety.
The manipulation of it all. As if romantic staging could somehow conjure emotions that don’t exist. As if I could be maneuvered into declarations like some lovesick fool in one of those novels she hides behind her economic journals.
My phone vibrates. Luigi confirming tomorrow’s session.
Not her.
She knows better than to interrupt my evening routine. Ten years of training have taught her that much. Even in her dramatic exit, she maintains protocol. The perfect wife to the end.
10:15.
The candles have burned halfway down. One gutters in the wind, fighting to stay lit. I watch it struggle, the flame dancing wildly before finally succumbing. Smoke curls up in a thin gray ribbon, dissipating into nothing.
Like her little tantrum will. They always do.
She used to light candles every night when we first married. The first time she did it, I told her the scent was too strong, and the next night they were gone. Replaced with unscented pillars that gave light without intrusion.
She learned fast. I’ll give her that.
10:47.
She’s late.
Not that it matters. Let her walk off her anger. Let her realize how ridiculous she’s being. Three words. She’s destroying ten years over three words I never promised to say.
I pour another scotch, the bottle clinking against crystal. Below, Monaco glitters with its usual display of excess. Somewhere down there, my wife is learning what it means to walk away from Aivan Cannizzaro.
She’ll be back.
They always come back.
11:23.
Except she doesn’t.
The irritation starts as a low burn in my chest. She’s pushing it now. Testing boundaries that shouldn’t be tested. We have rules, unspoken but understood. She doesn’t make scenes. She doesn’t storm off. She certainly doesn’t stay out past midnight like some teenager making a point.
I move inside, bringing the scotch with me. The penthouse feels different without her in it. Too quiet, but I refuse to call it empty. It’s peaceful. No humming from the kitchen. No clicking heels on marble. No vanilla-scented ghost trailing through my space.
Maybe this is better.
The thought surprises me. But why not? No more carefully orchestrated dinners I didn’t ask for. No more wounded looks when I work late. No more silent expectations hanging in the air like smog.
11:45.
In our bedroom—no, fuck, my bedroom—her nightgown lies across the chair. Pale blue silk that makes her skin glow like pearl.
“It’s comfortable,”* she’d explained once. *“Helps me sleep better.”
Always choosing comfort over style. Another disappointment in a growing list.
The shower still smells like her shampoo. Honey and flowers, something she special-orders from Provence. The bottle is nearly empty. She’ll need to order more soon.
Or not.
Maybe this is her play. Stay away long enough that I come begging. Make me realize what I’m “missing.”
She doesn’t know me at all if she thinks that’s how this works.
2:17 AM.
Sleep eludes me, but it’s the principle of the thing, not her absence. I’ve moved to my office, laptop open to track telemetry data. The numbers blur together. My concentration is off, but that’s anger, not concern. How dare she disrupt my routine with her dramatics?
Her touches are everywhere in this room. The ergonomic chair she insisted I needed. The coasters she bought because she couldn’t stand water rings on rosewood. The photo from our honeymoon in Capri tucked beside my monitors.
She’s smiling in that photo, wind in her hair, arms around me from behind. I look annoyed at the interruption, but my hand covers hers. A moment of weakness the photographer caught.
I turn the photo face down.
3:45 AM.
The coffee maker starts its programmed cycle. 5:47 AM. She calculated exactly how long it takes me to shower and dress before I want that first cup. Always awake before it brews, padding downstairs to add one sugar cube.
“You don’t have to get up,” I’d tell her.
“I know,” she’d answer. “Want to.”
Five thousand mornings. Five thousand times she chose to wake at ungodly hours just for twenty minutes together. Five thousand kisses goodbye at the door.
The dedication should be touching.
Instead, it’s suffocating.
All that effort. All that need. All for what? So I’ll say three words that died with my mother?
4:30 AM.
Curiosity drives me to her closet. When did she accumulate so much? Racks of designer dresses for team events. Shelves of bags organized by color. Shoes arranged like a boutique.
But it’s the back corner that stops me.
Hidden behind evening gowns, a cardboard box. Inside, remnants of the girl I married. A faded university sweatshirt. Her old employee ID. Photos of friends I’ve never met.
At the bottom, a journal.
Day 1: Mrs. Aivan Cannizzaro. I can’t believe it’s real. He chose me. ME. I’m going to be the best wife he could ever want. Going to make him so happy he’ll never regret it.
The entries chronicle her transformation. Learning to cook my grandmother’s recipes. Memorizing sponsor names. Practicing her smile for photographers. Each entry more desperate than the last to be “perfect.”