The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 03

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 03

“What time is it? Damn phone’s dead. Anyone got a charger?”

Vito’s voice snapped me back to the present. I was still pressed against the hallway wall, my heart

jackhammering, my mind racing through everything I’d just heard.

A beat of silence from inside the room. Then: “Ah, hell. The wife texted. I saw the notification

before it died. Gotta call her back.”

My phone buzzed in my hand.

I let it ring. And ring. And ring.

Then the messages started rolling in, one after another, like he was panicking:

[Babe, sorry, phone just came back to life. Swear to God.]

【Why’d you hang up? You don’t love me anymore? Is that it? You finally realized I’m annoying?]

[Sad puppy face with the big eyes.jpg]

[Getting you that cake right now. Walking out the door this second. Just please talk to me? I’ll beg. I’m not above begging.]

My brain was short-circuiting. The man in those messages – the one typing in all caps, using emojis, threatening to beg – was not the same man who’d been holding court in that private room five minutes ago. That man had been cool. Collected. In control.

This man sounded like a kid who’d lost his mom at the supermarket.

Finally, I typed back, trying to sound normal:

【Don’t worry about the cake. I was about to crash anyway. Have fun with your friends.]

From inside the room, chaos erupted.

“Man, you guys are a bad influence! The wife’s pissed, she doesn’t even want the cake. I’m out. Rain

check. Someone else can pay for the wine.”

Chairs scraping. Someone yelling, “Don, you said you were staying until midnight!” Someone else laughing.

I ducked into the bathroom at the end of the hall, locked myself in a stall, and pressed my palms

against my eyes until I saw stars.

By the time Vito stormed downstairs, I was already sneaking out the back through the kitchen. Sal gave me a strange look but didn’t say anything. He just handed me a paper bag with two cannoli inside and patted my shoulder.

And somehow – I still don’t know how, maybe I took a shortcut I didn’t know I knew – I made it

home first.

I stripped off my jacket, brushed my teeth, and was already in bed, buried under the covers, when

the bedroom door creaked open ten minutes later.

Vito padded over. The mattress dipped. Then his arms were around me, pulling me close from

behind, his chest warm against my back.

“Babe.” His voice was soft. Tentative. “I know you’re awake.”

I didn’t move.

“I brought the cake anyway. It’s on the counter with a fork. Don’t be mad, okay? Please? I wasn’t ghosting you on purpose. This phone’s a dinosaur. Died on me without any warning. I didn’t even

realize until I went to check the time.”

This was not the same man who’d said “keep it quiet, yeah?” in that smooth, calculated voice.

I was too exhausted to keep up the act. The bratty response just slipped out, automatic as breathing:

“You’re telling me you can’t afford a new one? Get your assistant on it already. Or one of your guys. Someone. There are like forty people who work for you.”

A pause. Then, genuinely wounded: “But you bought me this one.”

“What?”

“You bought me this phone. Our first anniversary. It has… sentimental value.”

“Vito, it’s a phone.”

“You bought it. So I don’t want to switch unless you buy me the new one too.” He nuzzled into my

hair. “That’s the rule. You started it. You have to finish it.”

“So tell me that! Use your words!”

“I thought you’d notice!” Puppy eyes. Even in the dark, I could feel them. “I thought you’d see me

struggling with my ancient phone and feel bad and buy me a new one. That’s how marriage works, right? You’re supposed to read my mind.”

Damn it.

Anniversary two, I’d stopped being the perfect little housewife who tracked his every need and anticipated his every desire. These days, if I remembered to buy him a pen – a pen, like the cheap ones they throw in for free with a purse – he loses his mind. Wears it to every single “meeting.”

Shows it off to anyone who’ll listen.

“It’s from my wife. Yeah, she’s great. Yeah, I know I’m lucky. Don’t touch it.”

I sighed. The fight drained out of me. “Fine, fine. I’ll get you a new one. Tomorrow. But you’re

driving.”

“Knew you were the best! Knew it. Here, babe. Say ah. This is the best chocolate cake in the city. I fought a guy for it. Not really. But I would have.”

He dug out a spoonful of molten chocolate with his own fork and held it to my lips.

In the dim light from the window, his eyes were soft. Adoring. Vulnerable, even.

I looked at him – at those warm brown eyes, that stupid hopeful smile, the streak of flour on his

collar from who knows where and wondered.

Can anyone really be this good at faking it?