Page 21 of The Wrong Vintage
I lean in slightly—not enough to invade her space, just enough that my voice doesn't carry.
"I don't misunderstand a thing," I murmur. "I simply don't confuse what is temporary with what is mine."
Her color fades.
"I don't know what you thought you'd achieve by speaking with me about your relationship with my husband." I succumb to my need for bluntness. I've always abhorred artifice. "But don't do it again."
Her expression fractures, astonishment slipping through the cracks.
I straighten, force my tone to pleasant civility. "If you'll excuse me."
As I step past her, she reaches out—not touching me, but close enough to be noticed.
"He's not the loyal kind, Alessia."
A dry laugh escapes me. "Chiara, I didn't marry Nico for his loyalty. I don't expect it. Hell, I don't even want it."
She narrows her eyes. "Is this real composure, or are you faking it?"
She looks surprised that she said what she did, that she thought aloud.
"My composure is hard won. It comes from knowing exactly who I am." I let out a breathy laugh and add, "And knowing precisely who I don't need to be."
I walk away without looking back.
A part of me is hurt that Nico has allowed me to be humiliated by his mistress this way. I don't believe he told her to seek me out or provoke me—but he has another woman in his bed while we are so newly married, and that is a worse degradation.
I want to leave now. My social battery is empty, and I am exhausted. This last interaction has left me profoundly wounded—and with it comes a clarity I can no longer avoid.
I see now what my efforts have amounted to.
The invitations to Tenuta Pietra Alta that I have extended to Nico again and again since our wedding.
The messages I sent him quietly, without telling a soul—wishing him a happy birthday, even though he never remembered mine.
All those small, secret overtures made in the hope of building something real.
None of them warranted a response.
And that can only mean that this marriage will continue exactly as it began.
Behind me, the party swells. Laughter, music, crystal chiming against crystal.
Somewhere across the terrace, I hear Nico's voice. When I first heard it all those months ago, I thought it was compelling, authoritative, and…yes, sexy.
I'm a pragmatist, so I know I'm not in love with my husband—I barely know him. But I'm also a romantic, and the simple fact that Nico is my husband stirs emotions in me I can't seem to control, no matter how hard I try.
No woman grows up imagining a marriage of convenience, or attending parties where her husband's mistress talks down to her.
Every woman carries some version of a fairytale, and mine has just been ripped apart.
So I don't seek Nico out. I don't need him to witness my unraveling. Chiara may have walked away believing that she didn't rattle me—but the truth is that she shattered me. She's made it crystal clear that I am the wife, a woman who is being tolerated, while Chiara is the mistress, a woman who is loved and adored.
I say goodbye to Matteo, who understands that I have to wake up in a few hours and get back to work.
I'm halfway to the cloakroom when Nico finds me.
He doesn't touch me at first—just steps into my path with that calm assurance that makes people move without being asked. He looks impeccable, still, as if the night hasn't cost him anything.
