Page 24 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
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.”
The last entry:Three words. I can’t believe it. He’s finally going to tell me...that.
I close the journal with a snap. This is what she’s been doing? Documenting every moment, analyzing every gesture, waiting for something I never promised?
The anger burns hotter.
She knew what this was. A business arrangement that happened to include good sex. I never lied. Never pretended. Never gave her false hope.
Did I?
5:47 AM.
The coffee maker beeps. No barefoot steps on the stairs. No sleepy smile. No sugar cube dropped in with trembling fingers.
Fine.
I drink it black. The way I did before her. The way I will after.
Day Two.
Still nothing. No calls, no texts. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. The silence should be peaceful. Instead, it grates like an unbalanced tire at high speed.
