Page 112 of The Wrong Wife

My phone buzzes. I glance at the calendar alert and nod toward Alba.

“I’m assuming that since you’re here, you’ll be attending the Level One executive meeting in person.”

“Yes,” she says brightly. “It’ll be a relief not to present from another hotel room with questionable Wi-Fi.”

I gesture toward the elevators, and she shakes her head, refusing it without explanation.

We take the stairs.

“I’d like a word afterward,” she adds, chin lifting slightly—half challenge, half amusement—daring me to say something sensible like I’m busy.

Before I can respond, we’re in the hallway of the executive offices and waylaid by the top brass of the company, all of who clearly know Alba well.

“Ciao, Gennaro—still filching the good pens?” she teases our head of finance.

Gennaro—mid-fifties, perpetually stern—breaks into a smile I’ve never seen before .

“Only for you, Alba.” He hands her a slim copper pen that clicks with satisfying precision.

She gives him a conspiratorial grin as she studies the pen. “Where did this come from?”

He…chuckles?

Gennaro, who usually growls at us for not controlling costs, chuckles and says, “From Chateau Deer’s End.”

That’s the Alighieri vineyard in Napa, bought by Cesare in the late nineties.

Alba laughs—and it sounds just like Alessia’s.

My heart clenches.

It’s been two weeks since the harvest.

I haven’t returned to Pietra Alta.

I’ve been busy interviewing winemakers and with work.

I’ve also been hiding. My wife is cool on the phone when I call her, as I do every night. She only responds to text messages—never initiates one with a photograph and a funny message or an intimate one like she did before.

She doesn’t say she misses me.

I don’t know how to resolve us.

So, I’ve buried myself in interviews and strategy decks.

“Tanja—the Milan soft opening was daring,” Alba says warmly. “Crystal glassware under vaulted ceilings. Candlelight everywhere. Stunning.”

Tanja, our silk-draped head of marketing, blushes as she smooths her skirt.

“Nico!” Renzo calls from down the corridor, scowling at his phone.

Before I can respond, Alba lets out a soft laugh. “Finally, during daylight. I was starting to think you were a vampire,” she teases.

“They let me out for good behavior,” Renzo quips.

She greets Renzo with quick kisses on both cheeks.

Renzo is Alba’s boss, so they talk often and usually because of their schedules, late for him, early or very late for her, depending on which continent she’s on. He’s told me more than once how much he enjoys working with her. Enough that I once asked—only half joking—whether he was interested.