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Once he fixed her, would he go looking for someone else?
The joke was on him. She was too broken to fix.
Beatrice breathed through the pain of her thoughts. Voices drifted to her through the door, something about dinner and being able to talk.
“But Montrell,” Giulia was saying, her tone the same one Beatrice had heard from one of her nannies when she was young. She’d missed that scolding tone when the woman had gone away. “You have to be honest with your wife tonight.”
Beatrice bit her cheek, hard. Did that mean Montrell had been lying to her? Montrell, who was honest to a fault? And lying about what?
“Eavesdropping?” Vespa asked from behind her.
When Beatrice turned, she expected the other woman to be scowling at her.
“You never hear good things listening at doors, you know,” she said quietly instead. Her eyes looked sad as they drifted to the door. “He doesn’t lose it like that. Not that I’ve seen. Know what it’s about?”
Beatrice’s mouth felt like it was full of paste. “Didn’t you ask him?”
“I’m no good with shit like this. That’s why I got Giulia.” Vespa’s arms were crossed almost defensively. “Surprised to see you here. Don’t you think—”
The door behind Beatrice opened. Giulia’s eyes narrowed on them as she pulled the door shut behind her.
“I thought better of you two,” she reprimanded.
Vespa’s smile was more of a grimace. “No you didn’t. Not of me.”
“Don’t do that, Vespa.” Giulia’s eyes had softened despite her hard words. “You always sell yourself short.” Vespa looked away, andGiulia’s gaze shifted to Beatrice. “I take it you heard my invitation to the restaurant tonight?”
Beatrice nodded.
“Run away if you want. But if you decide to come, I’d like to have your favorite dish waiting. Have something in mind?” Her lifted eyebrow seemed to dare Beatrice to answer.
She swallowed. “Carbonara,” she said. “But only if you make it with guanciale.”
Giulia scowled at her. “Who do you take me for?” She swept past, muttering about the younger generation before stopping in her tracks, her finger wagging at Vespa. “Don’t you go cleaning up his mess for him.”
“Oh, come on, Giulia,” Vespa whined.
Giulia’s face softened. “Don’t make things too easy on him, at least.”
Vespa grinned. “No one’s ever accused me of being easy.”
Giulia’s bark of laughter softened her face. She didn’t start muttering again as she walked away.
Beatrice continued to stare after the older woman until she disappeared from sight.
Vespa tilted her head toward the door. “You need to see him first? I can wait.”
Beatrice hesitated but shook her head. “No.” She wondered again what he could be keeping from her. Her hand went to the cuffs on her wrist, which felt heavier than ever. “No,” she repeated.
Vespa shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s what dinner is for. Enjoy. Giulia’s cooking is the best.” She turned to the conference room and stomped inside, the door shutting much more loudly than it had when the older woman had closed it.
Hearing Montrell’s rumbling voice from inside made Beatrice’s feet race away. Dinner was still several hours away. There was plenty of time to focus on the right makeup and outfit that would create the armor she needed. She and her husband were long overdue for a discussion about what their marriage could become—if they let it.
They were almost through the antipasti, and Montrell still hadn’t been able to find more than a few inane words to say. Part of it was because he’d nearly swallowed his tongue when she’d come down the stairs. She was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen, black and plunging and showcasing her incredible legs. Her hair was piled in some messy twist that he wanted to plunge his hands into and scatter. It made the elegant arch of her neck look delicious. He wanted to bite her there and forget dinner altogether.
He’d ushered her to the car for an awkward ride to the restaurant so he wouldn’t give in to his urges. Instead of complimenting her or talking at all, he stared at the pearl bangles that had returned to her wrists. He couldn’t look away, hoping that somehow he’d find the words to explain that his reaction wasn’t because he was judging her. It wasn’t really about her at all.
He’d been angry at himself for being less than he wished he could be.
