The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 10

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 10

Vito noticed the change almost immediately. He wasn’t stupid.

The first time I turned down a piece of jewelry – some ridiculous diamond necklace he’d had delivered to the house, wrapped in a velvet box the size of my head – he got this look on his face like I’d just slapped him.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s beautiful. I just don’t need it.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed it. I asked if you liked it.”

“I liked it fine. Put it in the safe with the others.”

The second time, he brought home a bracelet from Cartier. “Just because,” he said, sliding the blue

box across the kitchen island. “Saw it and thought of you.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t open it.

“You’re not going to look at it?”

“I’ll look at it later.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching me chop vegetables

for a salad I didn’t want to eat.

The third time, he caught me before I could escape. Cornered me in the walk-in closet, his arms boxing me in against the shelves of shoes I never wore.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“You’ve turned down two necklaces, a bracelet, and a pair of earrings in the last week. You haven’t

complained about my schedule once. You haven’t asked me to pick up dessert. You haven’t – “He

stopped. Swallowed. “You haven’t said you love me in four days.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. I’ve been counting.”

I looked away. My reflection in the mirror behind him looked pale and tired.

“There’s a gala on Friday,” he said, softer now. “Everyone’s bringing their wives. You’re coming with me. And you need something new to wear. Around your neck. On your wrist. In your ears. Whatever you want. Just pick something. Please.”

I said fine.

The gala was at a hotel in Manhattan, the kind of place where the chandeliers cost more than most

people’s houses. Women in gowns that brushed the floor, men in tuxedos with cufflinks that

probably cost more than my first car. Champagne towers and string quartets and the low hum of deals being made in every corner.

Vito stuck to me like glue for the first hour. His hand was always on my back, my waist, my arm. He introduced me to everyone the same way: “My wife, Elena.” Not “my wife, Elena” like she was an

accessory. “My wife, Elena” like she was the most important person in the room, and everyone else

was just lucky to be breathing the same air.

A woman in a red dress slit up to her hip wobbled over on twelve-centimeter heels. Blonde. Tan.

Mid-thirties. The kind of woman who’d never had to pay for her own drink in her life.

“Mr. Colobo.” She held out her hand. “I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about your

new venture. I have a proposal I think you’ll be very interested in. Maybe we could… discuss it over a drink? Somewhere more private?”

Her eyes swept over him. Not his face. Down his chest, down his arms, like she was shopping.

Vito didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry. My wife’s not feeling well. I need to stay close. Unless you’d like to join us?”

The woman’s smile flickered. “I… of course. Another time, perhaps.”

She retreated.

The old me – the me from a week ago – would’ve grabbed his arm and said absolutely not. Would’ve glared at the woman until she slunk away. Would’ve made sure everyone in that room knew exactly who Vito Colobo belonged to.

But the new me just smiled that trained smile and said, “Go ahead. I want some dessert anyway. I’ll be fine.”

I turned and walked away before he could answer.

Not a backward glance.

I ate two slices of cake – a chocolate mousse thing and a lemon tart – and drank half a glass of champagne. The sugar hit my bloodstream. The champagne warmed my chest. For a few minutes, I almost felt normal.

When the heat got to be too much – the crush of bodies, the roar of voices, the press of silk and perfume – I ducked out to the terrace with the rest of my champagne. The cold air hit my face like a slap. I leaned against the stone railing and looked up at the sky, searching for stars that weren’t there.

“Elena.”

I nearly choked.

Sergio Martelli was standing at the other end of the terrace, a glass of scotch in his hand, an easy smile on his face. White suit. Perfect hair. Looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine.

“Sergio!” I hadn’t seen him in – what, three years? Four? “When did you get back?”

“Last week. I was going to call you. I didn’t want to interrupt.” He walked over, leaned against the railing next to me. “You look beautiful, by the way. Marriage agrees with you.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say.

He’d been the front-runner, once. Before Vito. Our families had done business together for years. Everyone assumed we’d end up together – the Martelli boy and the Ross girl. It would’ve been neat. Tidy. Good for the bottom line.

But he’d gone abroad for two years, and when he came back, I was already Mrs. Vito Colobo. He’d sent a nice gift. A crystal vase. I’d sent a thank-you note. We hadn’t spoken since.

“It’s good to see you,” I said. And I meant it. He’d never been unkind to me. “You look the same.”

“You look different.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Better different. Like you’re not holding something back anymore.”

Before I could answer, a gust of wind blew my hair across my face. I tucked it behind my ear.

“So,” Sergio said, “I still like you.”

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“Sergio Martelli.” Vito’s voice was pleasant. Dangerously pleasant. “Long time. You came to our wedding, didn’t you? Very generous gift. An entire place setting, if I remember correctly.”

He raised my champagne glass – my glass – in a mock toast, then downed the whole thing in one

swallow.

“I’ll drink this for her. You don’t mind.” He set the empty glass on the railing. “Elena and I have somewhere to be. But if you ever tie the knot, send us an invitation. We’ll send something nice. A toaster, maybe.”

He had his hand on my lower back, steering me away before I could get a word out.

“Where are we going?” I asked, stumbling a little in my heels.

“Home.”

“What about the gala?”

“Fuck the gala.”