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Without comment, Alex pulled out a chair at the tiny table. As Rosalie sat in it, Giulia added with a vengeful smile, “After dinner, Alex, you’ll come up on stage and say a few words about Chiara—won’t you?”
If she thought she could rattle him, she was disappointed. “Of course,” he replied calmly. “Whatever is needed for—what is your organization again?”
“The Venice Association for the Promotion of the Musical Arts,” she said sweetly. “Chiara was a beloved benefactress.”
His handsome face held no expression. “Right.”
Alex sat down with Rosalie. Feeling the eyes of the other guests in the ballroom from all the larger surrounding tables, she whispered indignantly, “I’m just surprised they haven’t put a spotlight on our table, to help people know where to throw their tomatoes!”
He gave a low snort, then put his hand gently over hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “And in a way, I’m glad we have our own table. But it’s just so unfair! They’re acting like you did something wrong when you didn’t!”
“There’s no point in fighting. We could show them a report from the fertility clinic and it wouldn’t change their minds. People will believe what they want to believe. And besides—” he looked at her quietly “—who told you life was fair, Rosalie?”
She looked away, suddenly in tears. “My parents,” she said. “They told me if you always do the right thing, try to help and be kind, that people would be kind in return.”
Alex gave a low laugh. “I had a very different education in my childhood.”
“What was it?”
“Kill or be killed.”
She gaped at him. “You don’t mean that.”
As dinner was served by a bored-looking waiter, Alex looked at her with a brief smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “No. Of course I don’t.” He looked down at the plate of food, which seemed like a very weak, pasty meal of overboiled green beans and bland chicken. “And after this, I will make a speech extolling Chiara’s virtues.”
“Was she really such a benefactress to music?” she asked, looking at the bohemian crowd around them.
“She was to one musician,” he said wryly, before taking a sip of red wine.
With a gulp, Rosalie looked up at the podium. “Are you going to say that?”
He shook his head. “What would be the point of insulting her to her friends, especially now she’s dead?” He looked away. “There are better ways to honor her.”
“Honor? But you hated her.”
“She hated me. I felt nothing for her.” With a humorless smile, he murmured, “I think that’s what I liked most about her.”
That didn’t even make sense to Rosalie. But for the rest of the evening, as she watched him endure rudeness so calmly and politely, she marveled at his self-control. After the dinner dishes were finally cleared away, and the coffee poured, Giulia made a speech in Italian from the stage. Rosalie’s eyes kept creeping toward Alex, as he watched with a faint smile on his lips, looking so handsome and powerful in his tuxedo.
He could have tossed this table, screamed, vowed to destroy everyone who insulted him. But he didn’t. He showed restraint. He was a good man, she thought. And against her will, a tiny, stubborn thought crept through her brain, twisting and turning like a serpent until it was like a thick, unbreakable knot inside her soul.
She wished Alex was hers.
That she could have a husband that steady. That loyal. That honorable and kind.
Rosalie jolted out of her reverie when Giulia switched to English in her speech on the stage.
“And now, to accept the prize, is Chiara’s husband—the Conte di Rialto! Who’s even come here with his pregnant friend,” she added spitefully.
Rosalie sucked in her breath, her cheeks burning red as her worst fear came true and a spotlight, indeed, did fall on their small table.
“Don’t be shy,” Giulia called. “Come up on stage, Alex, to accept Chiara’s award!”
The ballroom fell silent as Alex stood up from the table and walked up the steps to the stage. Going to the podium, he put his large hands against it and spoke in English, looking out at the crowds.
“Thanks,” he said with a casual smile. “I know Chiara valued the musical community in Venice. It’s why she chose to live here. She valued Riccardo Carraro’s genius above all.” His voice was mild. Looking out at the crowd, he raised his voice. “And so, I have decided that my late wife’s estate should go to support the musicians of Venice, with a million euros of it going directly to Carraro’s wife—”
