Chapter 1
Roman plants one hand on my chair. “Stand up, Elena. Vivienne will sit here.”
For one stupid second, I think I’ve misunderstood him.
This is our anniversary dinner. His ring is on my finger, yet Roman looks at the woman both families buried five years ago while everyone waits for me to move.
Then I see the sapphire at Vivienne’s throat.
I fastened that necklace around Roman’s mother before she died. Roman locked it away and refused to let me wear it. I called it grief because that hurt less than the alternative.
So it was never grief. He simply didn’t want the necklace on me.
My knees weaken, and I grip the table before anyone sees. Roman pulls the chair against my legs.
“You announced her return ten minutes ago.” My voice sounds thin. “When did you decide she would take my seat?”
His thumb moves over her scar. “She has suffered enough. Stop making tonight about yourself.”
About myself?
I chose these guests and kept both families calm for three weeks. None of it matters. Vivienne has scars, Roman is touching them, and I am already the cruel wife.
I look at my father before I can stop myself.
Dad. Look at me.
Salvatore turns the Bellini signet into his palm and studies his wine.
The hope vanishes so quickly that I feel dizzy. Roman pulls again, and I stand before the chair disappears beneath me.
My heel catches in the carpet, and the chair strikes the table behind me. Roman reaches past me—not to steady me, but to remove my name card.
Elena De Luca.
His mother wrote it after our wedding. I kept it because I had waited years to see his family name beside mine. I thought it made our marriage permanent.
Roman turns it facedown. “Put her with the Bellinis.”
My plate leaves first. My name follows. When I look back, Vivienne is sitting in my chair with my anniversary glass beside her hand.
“I was dead for a long time,” she murmurs. “I suppose that gave you time to mistake borrowed things for your own.”
The necklace. The chair. Roman.
Blood touches my tongue. “Be careful with what Roman lends you. He takes things back in front of an audience.”
Her smile falters.
Good. Let it hurt.
Roman steps between us. “Apologize.”
For one pathetic heartbeat, I think he means her. Then he looks at me, and that last piece of hope twists into anger.
“For losing my seat,” I ask, “or for noticing who took it?”
Roman places my anniversary glass before Vivienne. “For making her return about you.”
The wine is from the year we married. He bought six bottles, one for each anniversary. God, I believed that promise.
Vivienne drinks first. Her lipstick stains the place my mouth should have touched.
The servant seats me between two Bellini cousins, and both move away. I still search for my name card, expecting Roman to return it.
Instead, Matteo raises his drink. “To the return of what was stolen from us.”
Several De Luca men answer. Roman raises his glass. “To Vivienne. No one will take what belongs to her again.”
What about what he is taking from me?
I cannot ask. Roman would call it jealousy. I press one fingernail into the wood and watch him touch his glass to mine in her hand.
Vivienne opens her bag. “There is something Roman’s wife deserves to see.”
Roman’s wife.
The title nearly makes me laugh—until she places a silver medallion on the cloth. Dried blood surrounds her dead brother’s crest. Everyone looks at it except Matteo.
He is watching me.
Vivienne pushes the medallion down the table until it strikes my plate. “Why haven’t you told her what the Bellini family did to me?”