Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Wasn’t Divorced
Bianca Voss stared at me as if I'd spoken in another language.
“His wife?”
Her hand dropped from Dante's arm.
For the first time since he'd walked through my hotel's revolving doors, Dante Moretti looked like a man without a plan.
He recovered quickly.
He always did.
“Bella.”
His voice had changed.
Low.
Careful.
The voice he used when he wanted everyone else to disappear.
Unfortunately for him, this was my lobby.
Not his office.
Not one of his warehouses.
Not a private dining room where people stood when Dante Moretti entered.
Behind me, the afternoon reception staff continued working.
A bellman wheeled luggage toward the elevators.
A pianist played something soft near the lounge.
Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead.
Everything remained civilized.
Which was exactly how I intended to keep it.
I tapped the registration form.
“Your signature.”
“Bella, enough.”
I looked at him.
“Is there a problem with your reservation, Mr. Moretti?”
His eyes flashed.
Nine years earlier, that look could make my pulse race.
Seven years earlier, it could end an argument.
Three years earlier, I had begun recognizing it for what it was.
A habit.
Dante was accustomed to being obeyed.
I had simply forgotten that being his wife did not require becoming one of his employees.
Bianca took a step backward.
“You told me you were separated.”
Dante didn't look at her.
“Not here.”
Her face went white.
“You said she lived in Boston.”
That nearly made me laugh.
I had never lived in Boston.
Not for a week.
Not for an afternoon.
“I've lived in Chicago since I was nineteen,” I said.
Bianca covered the bracelet on her wrist with her opposite hand.
Dante finally turned toward her.
“Bianca.”
“No.”
It was a tiny word.
But something interesting happened when she said it.
Dante stopped.
Maybe he had expected tears.
Maybe anger.
Maybe a scene.
Instead Bianca looked embarrassed.
Not by me.
By herself.
“How long?” she asked.
Dante's mouth tightened.
She looked at me.
“How long have you been married?”
“Nine years.”
Bianca visibly flinched.
“He told me two.”
I frowned.
“Two what?”
“Two years separated.”
There it was.
Not one lie.
An architecture of them.
New York business trips.
Late dinners.
Private calls.
An imaginary separation.
An imaginary wife living several states away.
Perhaps somewhere inside Dante's head there was even an imaginary version of himself who wasn't betraying anyone.
I looked at the reservation screen again.
“Would you still like to check in?”
Dante stared at me.
Bianca answered first.
“No.”
She unclasped the bracelet.
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“Don't.”
She placed it carefully on the marble counter.
“I don't want this.”
He lowered his voice.
“Bianca.”
“You told me she knew.”
My gaze moved to him.
That was new.
Bianca continued.
“You said the marriage existed on paper because of business interests.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“You said she had her own life.”
I almost admired the efficiency.
He hadn't merely lied to his mistress.
He had rewritten me.
Turned me into an absent woman who wouldn't complicate the story he wanted to tell.
Bianca looked at me.
“I didn't know.”
There were a hundred responses I could have given.
Sharp ones.
Satisfying ones.
I could have told her that ignorance didn't make the bracelet disappear.
I could have asked how she believed a powerful married man was conveniently separated without ever meeting his wife.
But her expression stopped me.
Because I recognized something there.
Humiliation.
I'd been feeling it for approximately seven minutes.
Apparently betrayal did not care which side of the affair you occupied.
“I believe you,” I said.
Dante looked at me sharply.
Bianca did too.
“You do?”
“I believe he lied to both of us.”
Dante exhaled through his nose.
“Bella, that's enough.”
I turned toward him.
“No, Dante.”
The lobby seemed to grow quieter, though perhaps I only imagined it.
“You don't get to decide when enough arrives.”
His expression hardened.
I kept my voice calm.
“You told me New York.”
He said nothing.
“You told her Boston.”
Still nothing.
“You charged her bracelet to the card we use for groceries, household expenses, and my mother's prescriptions.”
Something flickered across his face.
That one surprised him.
Good.
“You noticed?”
“I'm the hotel manager, Dante. Numbers are quite literally part of my job.”
His gaze fell briefly to the bracelet.
“You weren't supposed to—”
“See it?”
He stopped himself.
I smiled faintly.
“That sentence would have been difficult to finish well.”
Bianca let out an incredulous breath.
Dante's composure finally cracked.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
I considered it.
Then nodded toward my office.
“Five minutes.”
Relief moved across his face too quickly.
He thought he had gained control.
He hadn't.
I turned to my assistant.
“Emily, please cancel the Presidential Lake Suite reservation without penalty.”
Dante stared.
“Bella.”
“Mr. Moretti no longer requires the accommodation.”
“I didn't say that.”
Bianca gave him a disbelieving look.
“You still want the room?”
“That isn't what I meant.”
I removed the key cards from the counter.
“Problem solved.”
Then I looked at Bianca.
“If you'd like a car arranged, our concierge can help.”
She nodded quickly.
“Thank you.”
Dante stepped toward her.
“Bianca, don't leave.”
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Your wife just treated me with more honesty in ten minutes than you have in eight months.”
Eight months.
My stomach twisted.
Eight months was longer than I'd hoped.
Shorter than I'd feared.
Bianca picked up her handbag.
She left the bracelet behind.
Then she walked through the revolving doors without looking back.
Dante watched her go.
And something cold settled inside me.
Not jealousy.
Clarity.
He had looked after her.
Instinctively.
As though part of him wanted to follow.
That hurt more than the bracelet.
“Five minutes,” I reminded him.
My office overlooked the Chicago River.
Dante closed the door.
I immediately reopened it.
He frowned.
“Privacy, remember?”
“This conversation will be private enough.”
He stared at the open door.
Then at me.
“You don't trust me?”
The question was so absurd I almost smiled.
“I discovered twenty minutes ago that my husband invented an interstate separation so he could bring another woman to my workplace.”
His expression tightened.
“That's not what I meant.”
“It rarely is.”
“Bella—”
“How long?”
He looked away.
I waited.
“Eight months.”
The same answer Bianca had given.
At least one piece of truth existed.
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
The speed of his answer irritated me.
“Don't insult her too.”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“You risked nine years of marriage for a woman you didn't love. Somehow you think that answer helps.”
Dante dragged a hand over his face.
“It wasn't supposed to become this.”
“What was it supposed to become?”
He had no answer.
I sat behind my desk.
He remained standing.
“Was New York ever real?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So you planned to spend tonight here, then fly out?”
“Yes.”
“With her?”
“No.”
I gave him a long look.
He understood how useless that distinction sounded.
“Bella, I made a mistake.”
“One?”
His eyes closed.
I had never seen Dante struggle this badly with language.
He was famous for speaking little and meaning everything.
Now words abandoned him when he needed them most.
“I don't have an excuse.”
“That may be the first useful thing you've said.”
He stepped closer to the desk.
“I don't want to lose you.”
Something inside me cracked.
Not loudly.
Just enough to hurt.
“You should have considered that before booking rose petals.”
He flinched.
Good.
“I can fix this.”
There he was.
Dante Moretti.
The Black Wolf.
A man who thought every problem was a door requiring sufficient force.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“No?”
“You can answer questions. You can tell the truth. You can decide what kind of man you want to become after today.”
I stood.
“But you cannot fix me.”
“Bella—”
“And you don't get to decide whether this marriage survives.”
His breathing changed.
I removed my wedding ring.
For the first time in nine years, the skin beneath it looked strangely pale.
Dante stared at my hand.
I placed the ring inside my desk drawer.
Not dramatically.
Not forever.
I didn't know yet.
“I need space.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
The word had escaped automatically.
His jaw tightened.
Then something changed in his face.
He looked toward my empty ring finger again.
When he spoke a second time, his voice was quieter.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Where are you going?”
“My apartment.”
His head snapped up.
“What apartment?”
I froze.
There are moments when marriage reveals how much two people know about each other.
There are other moments when it reveals how much they stopped asking.
“I keep a small staff apartment in the building.”
“Since when?”
“Three years.”
“You've never mentioned it.”
“I have.”
Silence.
“Twice.”
He stared at me.
“You don't remember.”
It wasn't a question.
Something passed across his face.
Shame, perhaps.
But I was too tired to interpret him.
I picked up my handbag.
“My shift ends at six.”
“I'll wait.”
“No.”
“Bella.”
“If you are still in this building at six, I will leave through another door.”
His face hardened.
Then slowly softened.
“Fine.”
He moved toward the doorway.
I thought the conversation was over.
Then Dante stopped.
“There is something else.”
My stomach tightened.
Of course there was.
“What?”
He looked almost physically ill.
“The bracelet wasn't the only thing Bianca didn't know.”
I waited.
Dante swallowed.
“She thought this weekend was a goodbye.”
“To whom?”
He met my eyes.
“To you.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What does that mean?”
He looked away.
May you like
And then my husband said the sentence that transformed his affair into something far more complicated.
“I told her I was going to ask you for a divorce on Monday.”
