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)
“Yes, Aivan.”
Her voice only shook the slightest bit.
“I will marry you.”
Part Two
Aivan
“YOUR CARDIOVASCULAR efficiency is off the charts, your reaction time is faster than it was five years ago, and your body fat percentage would make men half your age weep with envy.”
I shut my laptop as Coach Luigi finishes rattling off my latest performance metrics. The man’s been with me since I turned pro fifteen years ago, and he still gets as excited about peak physical condition as a kid discovering his first racing video game.
Luigi’s perched on the edge of his desk like some Renaissance gargoyle, compact and weathered, built like the boxer he used to be before he discovered he had a gift for turning ordinary drivers into legends. His gym takes up the entire top floor of a converted warehouse in Monaco’s Port Hercule, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Mediterranean that most people would kill for.
I don’t notice views. I notice that my resting heart rate dropped another two beats per minute.
“It’s what’s expected,” I say, reaching for my jacket. Black today. Zegna, because their cuts accommodate shoulder movement without bunching.
Luigi throws a towel at my head. “Madonna mia, you sound like a machine.”
“Machines don’t win championships. Discipline does.” I catch the towel before it can mess up my hair.
“Bah!” Luigi waves a dismissive hand, gold wedding band catching the light. “You know what your problem is? You think too much like a—”
“Like a winner.”
“Stronzo.” But he’s grinning when he says it. Luigi’s one of the few people who can call me an asshole and get away with it.
“I need to cut our session short today.” My phone screen shows nothing new. No messages from Sienah, but then she never texts during training. Never interrupts. The perfect wife who understands boundaries.
Luigi’s weathered face brightens. “Ah, perfetto! Please extend my thanks to Sienah. She was a miracle worker last month with George.”
I pause in the middle of buttoning my jacket. “Who’s George?”
Luigi’s hands still on his gym bag. He turns to look at me with an expression I recognize from the track. The one that means someone’s about to tell you your rear wing’s been illegal all season. “George? My cat? Been with my family eight years?” His voice rises with each word. “Your wife flew him to that specialist in Switzerland when the local vets gave up?”
Switzerland?
My mind races through Sienah’s schedule like I’m checking sector times.
When the hell did she go to Switzerland?
“The orange tabby,” Luigi continues, pulling out his phone. “My Elena was destroyed. Crying every night. Then your wife shows up like some kind of angel, arranges everything. Private jet for a cat! Can you imagine?”
I can’t.
I literally cannot imagine it because I had no idea any of this happened.
“She even stayed with Elena during the surgery,” Luigi’s still talking, scrolling through endless photos of a fat orange cat. “Five hours in that waiting room,” the other man reminisces with a shake of his head. “I’ve never seen Elena cry like that. But Sienah, she just sat there, calm as a saint, promising everything would be fine.”
“When was this?”
“Three weeks ago? Maybe four?” Luigi shrugs. “Time flies when your cat’s not dying. George is fat and happy now, stealing my prosciutto every chance he gets.”
Three weeks. Four weeks. The numbers spin in my head like RPM readings. My own wife disappeared to another country, and I didn’t even notice she was gone.
“I need to go.” The words come out sharper than intended.
Luigi’s still talking about the damn cat as I head for the door.
The drive home takes thirty-two minutes in Monaco traffic. Thirty-two minutes with leather under my palms and the engine’s controlled fury nowhere near matching the thing building in my chest. Not confusion. Never confusion. But something that makes my jaw clench like I’m fighting G-forces.
Monte Carlo streams past my windshield. White yacht hulls bob in the harbor like toys in a rich man’s bathtub. The casino already throwing light pollution into the darkening sky. Everything in its place, everything running like clockwork.
Except...
My phone stays silent in its holder. No evening text from Sienah. She usually sends something around now. Small reminders. Little questions. Things I answer with one word while thinking about apex speeds.
The silence has weight. Like that half-second before you realize you’ve misjudged your braking point.
I take the corner toward home faster than necessary, tires singing that particular note that means I’m riding the edge. The gates recognize my car, sliding open to welcome me to my perfectly ordered life.
But her spot by the window is empty.
Third panel from the left, where she always waits when I come home. Where late afternoon light used to catch her watching for me. Ten years of that silhouette. Ten years of knowing someone was waiting.
The absence hits like unexpected turbulence. My pulse actually kicks up. Cardiovascular response to an empty window.