Chapter 8 - Three Nights Without Him
I checked into the Presidential Lake Suite alone.
It was an impulsive decision.
Possibly ridiculous.
But three weeks after discovering the affair, the suite became available unexpectedly.
The same room Dante had booked for Bianca.
Champagne.
Rose petals.
One king-size bed.
I stood inside the doorway while a bellman placed my overnight bag beside the dresser.
“Anything else, Mrs. Moretti?”
I looked around.
“Yes.”
He waited.
“Please remove the rose petals.”
He smiled professionally.
“Of course.”
“And the champagne.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Bring sparkling water instead.”
“Certainly.”
When the door closed, I laughed.
For weeks I had imagined the room as evidence.
Now it was simply a hotel suite.
A beautiful one.
Huge windows.
Lake Michigan beyond the glass.
A marble bath.
A sitting room where afternoon sunlight stretched across the carpet.
Objects did not betray people.
People did.
I changed into comfortable clothes.
Ordered pasta.
Turned off my phone.
Then spent the evening watching an old romantic comedy I had once mocked Nora for loving.
At midnight, I realized something.
I was peaceful.
Not happy.
Not healed.
But peaceful.
Dante and I had been living separately for three weeks.
He had not appeared unexpectedly.
Had not sent flowers.
Had not pressured me through family.
He answered when I contacted him.
Did not when I didn't.
Sofia told me he'd moved into a modest apartment near his office because staying alone in our house felt “dishonest.”
That sounded dramatic.
Also strangely like him.
The following morning, I found an envelope beneath my door.
My heart jumped.
Then I saw the hotel stationery.
Emily.
Inside was a note.
Mrs. Moretti, you told me once that hospitality means making people feel they belong somewhere.
For the next three days, please let us do that for you.
I cried for ten minutes.
Not because of Dante.
Because somewhere along the marriage, I had forgotten how many parts of my life existed outside him.
The hotel.
My team.
Nora.
My mother.
My own competence.
My own name.
Bella Moretti had become Dante Moretti's wife in many people's minds.
But before him I had been Isabella Conti.
A scholarship student.
The daughter of a pastry chef.
A woman who started at the hotel answering phones and became its general manager before thirty-two.
Dante had not given me that.
I had built it.
On the second day, I met with an attorney.
Not Dante's.
Mine.
Her name was Evelyn Park.
She wore red glasses and asked questions without telling me what my answers should be.
“Do you want a divorce?”
“I don't know.”
“Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“It means you're not here to make a legal decision while still answering an emotional question.”
I liked her immediately.
She explained separation.
Property.
Privacy.
My options.
When I left, she handed me a folder.
“Take your time.”
Everybody kept saying that.
For once, I intended to.
That evening Dante called.
I answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
We were quiet.
Then he asked, “How are you?”
“Better today.”
“I’m glad.”
Not where are you?
Not when are you coming home?
Progress.
“Did the sale go through?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“You sold the shipping company?”
“My controlling interest.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like my father is going to return from the dead solely to complain.”
I laughed.
It slipped out unexpectedly.
Dante became silent.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're being weird.”
“I haven't heard you laugh with me in weeks.”
The warmth vanished.
He noticed.
“Sorry.”
“No. It's okay.”
He changed the subject.
“I found something of yours.”
“What?”
“A notebook.”
I frowned.
“Where?”
“In my office at home.”
“What notebook?”
“Blue cover.”
I knew immediately.
My fertility journal.
My stomach tightened.
During treatment, my counselor had encouraged me to write.
I had forgotten where I put it.
“Did you read it?”
Dante was silent.
“Dante.”
“One page.”
Anger rose.
“Why?”
“It fell open.”
“That is the oldest excuse on earth.”
“I know.”
“What page?”
His voice became quiet.
“The one from our last appointment.”
I remembered.
Unfortunately.
The day the specialist told us another cycle was unlikely to succeed.
“What did it say?”
“You wrote that you couldn't cry because I wasn't crying.”
My throat tightened.
“You wrote that you thought I needed you to be strong.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“And?”
“That you wished I'd just admit I was devastated.”
My eyes burned.
“I was waiting for you,” I whispered.
“I know that now.”
“And I was waiting for you.”
“Yes.”
Two people protecting each other so efficiently that neither was allowed to grieve.
“I should have cried with you,” Dante said.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then he said, “There's something else inside the notebook.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“To whom?”
“Me.”
I couldn't remember writing one.
“Open it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Paper rustled.
Dante read silently at first.
“Out loud.”
His breathing changed.
Then he began.
“Dante, if we don't survive this, I need you to know it won't be because we couldn't have a baby.”
My heart stopped.
He continued.
“It will be because somewhere along the way we started loving each other silently.”
I closed my eyes.
“You protect me from your sadness. I protect you from mine. And then we wonder why the house feels empty.”
Dante's voice broke.
He stopped.
“Continue.”
Another breath.
“I don't need you to fix this. I need you to sit beside me while it remains broken.”
Tears rolled down my face.
“Please come back to me before neither of us remembers how.”
Silence.
I had written that three years earlier.
And never given it to him.
“Why didn't I give it to you?” I whispered.
“I don't know.”
Then memory returned.
I had gone to his office.
Letter in my handbag.
Dante was on the phone.
A crisis at the docks.
He held up one finger.
One minute.
I had waited forty-five.
Then left.
The letter remained inside the notebook.
Later became never.
The same disease that had destroyed us both.
Not Bianca.
Not the hotel.
Not one enormous betrayal.
Postponement.
Dante's voice came through the phone.
“Bella?”
“Yes?”
“If I'd read this then…”
“Don't.”
“I might have—”
“No.”
I wiped my cheeks.
“We do not get to create imaginary marriages where one perfect conversation saves everything.”
He went quiet.
“You still cheated.”
“Yes.”
“I still stopped speaking.”
“Yes.”
“We were both unhappy.”
“Yes.”
“And none of those facts cancel the others.”
“No.”
We remained connected for several minutes without speaking.
Strangely, it was one of the most intimate moments we'd shared in years.
Before hanging up, Dante asked:
“May I ask where you are?”
I looked around the Presidential Suite.
I almost lied.
Then decided we had enough of those.
“Room 1901.”
He knew the number.
Silence.
“You're in the suite.”
“Yes.”
“With anyone?”
I smiled despite myself.
“You don't get to ask that.”
“Right.”
“But no.”
His breath escaped.
“Bella?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you enjoy it.”
After we disconnected, I walked toward the windows.
On the lake below, tiny boats moved through evening light.
Then my hotel phone rang.
Reception.
“Mrs. Moretti, there's a gentleman downstairs asking to see you.”
My entire body tensed.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“No.”
“Who?”
The receptionist paused.
“He says his name is Adrian Cole.”
Bianca's former boyfriend.
May you like
And before I could ask why he wanted me, she added:
“He says he has evidence Bianca's relationship with your husband didn't begin the way either of them told you.”
