Page 27 of The Sicilian Billionaire's Neglected Wife
A week.
One week of this farce. One week of her hiding at Adriano’s, playing the wounded dove while I’m painted as the monster.
No more.
I’ve let this go on long enough. Let her have her moment of drama. Let her think she’s won something.
Time to remind her who she’s dealing with.
The papers are drawn up within hours. Every detail carefully crafted. Every clause designed for maximum impact. She wants to walk away? Fine. But she’ll walk away with nothing.
Just like she came to me with nothing.
The scotch goes down smooth now. No burn. No ache. Just cold clarity.
She thinks she knows loss? She’s about to learn what it means to challenge a man who’s never lost a race he was determined to win.
Let her cry on Adriano’s shoulder.
Let her play victim to anyone who’ll listen.
Let her think she’s safe in her little rebellion.
Tomorrow, she’ll learn what I do to people who betray me.
Tomorrow, she’ll understand the price of those three words she wanted so badly.
The contracts are signed. The calls are made. The machinery set in motion.
She wanted to play games?
Game on.
Sienah
THE KONTIDES’ RENTALhouse sits on a quiet street in Monte Carlo, nothing like the glass and marble monument to success Aivan and I call home. Called home. Past tense, Sienah. Get used to it.
