Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Right next to her wedding ring.
The sight made my chest feel like it was caving in. My throat closed.
A few minutes later, I turned off the lights and got in bed. I lay there in the dark, the house strangely silent and lonely as fuck. I could still smell her. Without thinking, I took her pillow and covered my face with it, inhaling deeply.
What the hell had gone wrong? And why was I so upset about it? I hadn’t wanted to be married to her in the first place—or to anyone. All I’d wanted was to run Moretti & Sons, and now I did. The papers were signed. My dad was retiring. And even if he was a jerk about Bianca leaving and changed his mind, fuck it—Bianca was right. I could always leave Pietro to run Moretti & Sons and start my own company. I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
And I could still have kids someday. Hell, men could have kids into their seventies, couldn’t they? Maybe it wasn’t fair, but that’s the way it was.
Angry and sad, I turned onto my side and hugged her pillow the way I’d gotten used to holding her at night. My heart felt like someone was standing on it.
But it was done.
I’d tried my best, like she’d said. I’d tried and I’d failed, and now she wanted out.
Best to let her go.
Sixteen
Bianca
I knocked on the door of my old condo just before ten, but there was no answer. I realized JJ was probably out—it was Friday night, after all—and let myself in with the key I still had on my ring.
Shutting the door behind me, I took a deep breath, glad to discover my place did not smell like a locker room. It actually smelled sort of like my parents’ house—like lemon furniture polish and fabric softener.
I peeked into my old bedroom, which did smell more like a locker room, wrinkled my nose at the clothes thrown everywhere and the unmade bed, and backed out again.
In my old office, I pulled out the sofa bed and made it up, then brushed my teeth, happy to note that the hallway bathroom was actually clean and freshly laundered hand towels were stacked in the cupboard.
Back in my office, I took a minute to glance at all the photos on my shelf, reminding myself that I still had family and friends. I still had places and memories I loved. In a way, I still had Enzo too—at least, I hoped I did. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again, although I might have to avoid him for a while, at least until my heart didn’t feel so exposed and vulnerable. I needed some time to build those walls back up.
I dug through the small overnight bag I’d hastily packed in the guest room at Enzo’s and pulled out some pajamas. I put them on and slipped into bed before reaching for my phone. First I texted my brother that I was asleep in my office and I’d explain tomorrow.
Then I took a deep breath and let Enzo know that I’d arrived. His reply was quick and short, and I didn’t blame him. I knew I’d blindsided him tonight. I should have told him at the beginning of the week that I’d decided not to take the Clomid again. I had no excuse—I’d simply put off the conversation because I knew it would be hard. I knew I’d have to admit the truth—that I wasn’t strong enough to keep going through this rollercoaster of emotions. That I was worried my feelings for him were growing too big to contain. And I knew I’d have to follow it up by leaving.
What I hadn’t known was how easily he was going to let me go. No fight. No pleas to stay. No trying to talk me into trying again. Mostly he’d seemed upset that I’d hidden the truth from him about the pills.
It seemed to me like the perfect evidence he was done with me. And why wouldn’t he be?
He’d gotten his company. I couldn’t get pregnant. There was nothing left, no reason for us to keep up the act.
He didn’t love me. He was never going to love me.
I set my phone aside and cried myself to sleep.
Saturday morning, I woke up with my cheek on a damp pillow. I checked the time—it was just after seven.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I stretched and ran a hand through my hair. My head ached, my eyes felt puffy, and my nose was sore from blowing it so many times. There was a pile of soggy tissues on the floor next to the bed.
After dumping them in the trash, I threw on my jeans and sweatshirt, used the bathroom, and shuffled out to the kitchen to make some coffee. Again, I was pleasantly surprised to see that JJ had a fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, complete with fresh fruit and orange juice. Maybe I’d sold my brother short in the maturity department.