But we both know what’s expected of us, which is why we walked in together, smiling for our guests as the room turned to look at us.
The new couple.
The alliance made flesh.
Cameras flashed.
Applause followed us like a cue we’d rehearsed.
For a few minutes, it worked.
We moved through the crowd as we were meant to—introducing ourselves, accepting congratulations, nodding at investors and board members, and people who would forget her name by morning. We spoke to others, but never to each other. Not really. Our smiles were perfectly timed. Our distance, equally so.
Then, as if on instinct, we separated as we have in our relationship. I have a good excuse with the merger and myneed to be in Florence, and hers to be in Bolgheri. A marriage like ours survives because of the distance.
She drifted toward Matteo Rinaldi and the winemakers, into conversations that mattered to her. I was pulled in the opposite direction—toward donors, press, people who wanted assurances and handshakes and a version of me that didn’t hesitate.
By this point at the party, we might as well have arrived alone.
I should remedy that, go to her, and continue the façade.
But I don’t move. There is something compelling about the way she holds herself with quiet dignity that I don’t see in any other woman in this garden. She stands out—despite the lack of diamonds and finery. She stands out because she’s herself.Authentic.
I watch Matteo’s expression as my wife speaks. He’s listening, not indulging, as I know he sometimes does with important clients who want to genuflect to the legendary winemaker or show off their limited knowledge of wine.
No, they’re talking like equals.
A waiter passes. I take a glass—Brunello this time, Fonteferma Riserva. Good choice. Structured. Serious. Not a wine meant to charm quickly.
I take a sip and turn to look at Chiara, who laughs loudly, drawing attention. She’s not aggressive, just flirtatious in a way that is still somehow professional. Even though I don’t know Alessia, I know she wouldn’t be able to pull something like that off.
I want to go to her, but I don’t. I resist. I have no idea why. It would make everyone’s life easier if I just played a husband in public—instead, I….
“Nico.” Chiara smiles at me and steps forward as I join her circle of conversation. “I was just telling Mr. Pignola here about the rebrand we’re planning.”
Mr. Pignola—silver-haired, immaculately dressed, one of those old families whose cellars matter more than their bank accounts—nods politely. His attention, however, drifts almost immediately. Not to the branding materials Chiara gestures toward with practiced ease, but past her shoulder.
“Ah,” he murmurs. “Matteo.”
He’s brought my wife here for some reason…no, no, I know why. He wants me to make her happy. He told me as much, and I told him that we’re not making each other happy—we’re here for the sake of business.
He has his hand on Alessia’s back as if he’s holding her there, stopping her from bolting.
“Santino, how are you doing, old friend?”
They shake hands, and Mr. Pignola’s eyes fall on my wife.
“Ah, Alessia, how are you,cara?” He hugs her fondly.
He knows her.
He likes her.
I don’t know why that should surprise me, but it does.
Matteo ignores Chiara, not bothering to even greet her. Alessia smiles and nods. She doesn’t look at me.
Chiara’s smile tightens by a fraction. Barely perceptible. But I see it.
