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I’m as stubborn as she is. Having my wife ignore me isn’t just a point of pride. Scarlett fascinates me. Her beauty is captivating, butsheis enthralling. I want more than a superficial relationship with her. More than a physical one, although my body wouldn’t completely agree.
I want to know why she’s a multi-billionaire working hours like she’s struggling to pay rent. I want to know whether her relationship with her parents was ever different than it is now, if their unhappiness bled into her—and now into us. I want to know why she agreed to marry me when she seems intent on ignoring her father’s wishes and is hostile toward commitment.
After she asks about the WiFi, I stop answering her questions, which only annoys her more. She’s still grumbling as she follows me off the jet and toward the waiting car.
The late-afternoon air is warmer and drier than it was when we left France. Dapples of golden light filter down from the blue sky, bathing the tarmac and the distant buildings that make up the airport with a subtle glow.
I exchange pleasantries with the driver before sliding into the air-conditioned car. He finishes loading our luggage into the trunk, and then we’re pulling away from the airport and turning onto a busy road.
“You speak Italian?” Scarlett sounds surprised.
“Some.” I ask her where the nearest train station is.
She appears impressed, telling me she doesn’t speakanyItalian.
I catch our driver smiling in the rearview mirror as traffic thins and we coast along the road connecting the port city of Salerno and clifftop Sorrento before we enter Amalfi. The car winds past scenic views of terraced vineyards and cliffside lemon groves.
The villa is one of the few international properties my family owns that I ever bother staying at. When we pull up out front, I’m reminded why. It used to be an old rope factory producing fishing nets. The workers undoubtedly enjoyed the same view of aquamarine waves dotted with boats with a shoreline framed by the colorful houses staggered on the cliffs, looking as precarious as Jenga blocks. Years of renovations and wealthy owners have made the house unrecognizable from its humble beginnings. The majolica cladding was custom designed for this property alone.
Scarlett walks across the terracotta floors toward the terrace. She says nothing, which is a first. I’ve brought other women here before, and they’ve all spent a minimum of twenty minutesoohingandaahingover every detail. None of them grew up with the level of luxury Scarlett is accustomed to. All of them knew their time here would be limited and singular.
Technically, Scarlett has a claim to this property. Our ironclad prenup distributes our substantial assets in the event we get divorced. As long as we’re married, they all belong to the other—with the exception of the magazine she asked me to sign away. Possessing something often causes it to lose its luster. It’s human nature to covet what we can’t or don’t have. Appreciating what we do own is much rarer.
I watch our driver stack the suitcases in the entryway, then turn back to Scarlett. She’s twisting her long brunette locks up into a bun, looking around like she’s stepped inside a museum and is observing its artifacts. Appreciative, yet detached.
“I’ll be back by six.”
She spins, paying attention to me for the first time since we arrived. “Where are you going?”
A question I didn’t ask her once in the past four days, most of which I spent in a hotel room in Paris, working remotely so as not to interrupt her business. “Out.”
“I came all this way and now you’re just leaving?”
“Sound familiar?”
Her eyes flash and her mouth drops. I walk out before she responds. A low blow. An admittance—that her absence and detachment the past few days bothered me. Annoyance—because I want to spend time with her, and rather than man up and admit that to her, I lied. And now I’m having to act like it wasn’t one.
I instruct the driver to leave me at a tiny café in town. Happy chatter fills the street in a smorgasbord of languages. I order a cappuccino from the waitress and take a seat at one of the tiny tables—Europe is the opposite of Texas, it seems—and look out at the stucco buildings and the expensive cars and the ocean sparkling in the sunshine.
My phone starts to ring. I debate answering, but it’s Asher. I haven’t talked to him since I left for Paris.
“Hey.”
“Why aren’t you answering my texts?”
“Why are you acting like a clingy ex?”
He chuckles. “Fuck, dude. I miss you. You coming over tonight?”
I blink, then realize.I was supposed to be back in New York hours ago.“No. I’m at the villa.”
“The villa? Does your dad know?”
Most of the time, I like the fact that my best friend’s office is right down the hall from mine. This is not one of those times. “He’s not my warden. If I want to go to Italy, I’ll fucking go to Italy.”
“I was just asking, man. He was pissed you left for Paris without warning, and the Lancaster acquisition is supposed to close Friday. We’re supposed to run through the final reports tomorrow. The whole team.”
“I’ll review the reports and send my feedback.”
