Page 11 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

My bodyguard.

Tonight, he’s making sure nobody follows us.

“You okay?” Hugo asks.

“Barely.”

He nods once. No pity. No pointless reassurance. We both knew what tonight would cost me.

Paris slips past the windows in ribbons of gold and winter light.

Holiday lights glow across the boulevards, painfully cheerful against the chaos in my head.

At regular intervals, Hugo checks the mirrors.

Making sure Stephen is still there.

We leave the city behind, cross through the suburbs, then stop in front of wrought-iron gates. Beyond them rises the rented manor—discreet, secure, its tall windows barely lit.

Our headquarters for the next few weeks.

Youri buzzes us in from the guardhouse and gives us a brief wave.

I head upstairs immediately.

In the bathroom, I undress mechanically. I remove the microphone—no bigger than a jacket button—that Mara had hidden beneath my neckline. When the dress slips to the floor, it feels like shedding the weight of the entire evening.

The water is scalding, but I stay beneath it anyway.

The spray beats against my skin until my hands stop trembling.

Then the tears come, unstoppable.

I see Dante again. His rage. His contempt. Those black eyes that once looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.

You died to me two years ago, Valeria.

And despite everything—despite his anger, despite his hatred—it’s the urge to run to him that nearly breaks me.

The urge to explain everything.

To find my way back into his arms.

But he’s marrying Bianca on Christmas Eve.

The day we first made love, eight years ago.

Eventually, the tears stop.

I pull on jeans and a thick sweater before heading downstairs.

Stephen and Hugo are scrolling through their phones.

“There are pictures and videos of you everywhere already,” Hugo says. “People are losing their minds with theories.”

A smile tugs at my lips.

“So what’s their favorite one?”