Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN ACROSS FROM ME
The dinner ended without dessert.
That was how Beatrice described it later.
As if the missing pumpkin pie were the evening's tragedy.
Thomas Calder left first.
Patrick tried to take Alessia with him.
She refused.
Roman ordered the gates closed.
That caused three men near the foyer to reach instinctively inside their jackets.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Forty adults had spent an evening discussing my unborn daughter like a merger, and somehow locking a driveway was where everyone discovered principles.
“Open the gates,” I told Roman.
He stared at me.
“Cass—”
“Nobody is being held here because you suddenly remembered you're powerful.”
His jaw tightened.
Then:
“Open them.”
The gates opened.
Thomas left.
Patrick didn't.
Roman took him into the library.
I didn't follow.
For once, I wasn't interested in what powerful men said when they thought women weren't listening.
I wanted Alessia.
She stood alone in the conservatory.
My wedding ring remained in her hand.
“You should take that.”
She held it toward me.
“No.”
“Cassandra.”
“I didn't give it to you as a gift.”
“Then why?”
“So I'd remember I took it off.”
Her face crumpled.
I expected satisfaction.
There was none.
“How long?”
I asked.
She understood.
“Six months.”
“How?”
“A fundraiser.”
“I know where you met. I asked how.”
Alessia lowered her eyes.
“It wasn't planned.”
“That sentence should be illegal.”
A broken laugh escaped her.
“I know.”
“Did you love him?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
That hurt.
I appreciated it anyway.
“Did he love you?”
“I thought so.”
“You don't anymore?”
She looked toward the library.
“Not after tonight.”
I almost hated her for making herself sound wounded.
Then she said:
“Roman told me your marriage had been over privately for years.”
I stared.
“He said you stayed together because of family obligations.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“He slept in my bed four nights ago.”
Alessia closed her eyes.
“He told me you had separate rooms.”
“We do.”
She looked confused.
I almost smiled.
“My room has blue wallpaper. His has gray.”
Understanding arrived.
“He told you we slept separately.”
“Yes.”
“He omitted that we usually chose one room together.”
Her face went white.
“He told me the baby was planned for succession.”
My anger sharpened.
“Isabel was conceived after three years of fertility treatments.”
Alessia sat down.
“Oh God.”
There are moments when the woman you want to hate becomes inconveniently human.
I hated that one.
“Tell me about the trust.”
“I only knew pieces.”
“Tell me every piece.”
She did.
The Bellandi organization had been under pressure for eighteen months.
Not from police.
From fragmentation.
Thomas Calder controlled shipping.
Patrick controlled political relationships and several union contracts.
The Bellandis controlled construction, private security and logistics.
Three families that had spent decades competing were preparing an agreement designed to end retaliatory violence and consolidate legitimate businesses.
The agreement needed a future symbol.
An heir connected to Bellandi assets.
Isabel.
My daughter.
“And you?”
I asked.
Alessia looked ashamed.
“Patrick suggested that if something happened to your marriage, I could eventually become Roman's wife.”
“Suggested?”
“He'd been suggesting it since I was twenty-four.”
My stomach turned.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
Seven years.
This wasn't romance.
It was cultivation.
“Did Roman know?”
“Not at first.”
“And later?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
The affair had already begun.
“What did he say?”
“That nobody chose his wife for him.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Very romantic.”
“He said he'd never marry me for an agreement.”
“But continued sleeping with you.”
“Yes.”
Another contraction.
Longer.
Alessia noticed.
“Are you okay?”
“Don't.”
“Cassandra—”
“I don't need concern from you.”
She nodded.
Fair.
Then she said something I wasn't expecting.
“Your contractions are seven minutes apart.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“I've been watching the clock.”
I hated her a little more for being right.
“They're Braxton Hicks.”
“Maybe.”
“They've been happening for weeks.”
“Are they usually seven minutes apart?”
I didn't answer.
She stood.
“You need your doctor.”
“I need answers.”
“You can need both.”
The irony was unbearable.
My husband's mistress was the first person at Thanksgiving to prioritize me over the agreement.
Then Roman entered.
His knuckles were bleeding.
I looked at them.
“Did Patrick's face provide useful information?”
Roman ignored the sarcasm.
“We're going to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Cass.”
“No.”
“You're having contractions.”
“And we're having a conversation.”
His eyes closed.
“Please.”
Nine years.
Roman Bellandi had commanded rooms, companies and men.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him say please.
I hated that it still affected me.
I stood.
Pain wrapped around my abdomen.
This one was different.
I grabbed the table.
Roman reached me.
Then I felt warmth between my legs.
Everyone froze.
I looked down.
Not much.
But enough.
Roman's face went white.
“Cass?”
I whispered:
“That's not supposed to happen.”
Twenty-three minutes later, I was in an ambulance.
Roman sat beside me.
And for the first time since I'd discovered his affair, he wasn't touching me.
Not because he didn't want to.
May you like
Because I hadn't given him permission.
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