Burned Out of the Moretti Name

On the other end of the line, my mother went quiet for a second, then I heard something like relief in her voice.

“Sofia,” she said, almost smiling, “you’ve finally decided.”

“I’ll have your father start on the papers tonight. It should take about ten days. Wait for my call.”

After I hung up, I went home.

When I walked into the villa, Lorenzo was already sitting in the living room.

There was a tension in his face I did not see often.

“You’re late,” he said. “Where were you?”

I lifted the pharmacy bag in my hand and answered evenly, “Nowhere special. My stomach was bothering me, so I went to a clinic. They ran a few tests and gave me some medicine.”

My health had never been particularly strong, and this pregnancy had come hard enough that the doctor had warned me to be careful and prescribed something to help.

When he saw nothing unusual in my expression, he finally asked what he really wanted to know.

“You came by to see me today, didn’t you?” he said. “Why did you leave as soon as you got there?”

So someone had told him I had been seen outside his office.

He just did not know whether I had witnessed that moment.

The truth was, it had only lasted a few seconds. Bianca had been sitting far too close, wrapped in his jacket and holding his glass . By the time I looked again, she had already stepped back.

“I was just passing by,” I said. “I saw you were busy with your assistant, so I left.”

I saw his body eased, he let out a breath he had been holding.

Something inside me twisted.

We’d been married seven years. To everyone, we were the model of loyalty, history, and a love that endured everything.

I had thought we would love each other for the rest of our lives.

I had not expected his heart to change this quickly.

“She was only giving me a report,” he said at once. “You know what she’s like—she’s young, she doesn’t understand boundaries, and she stood a little too close. That’s all.”

Lorenzo stepped toward me and slid an arm around my shoulders, his voice turning gentle.

“We haven’t been back to Ravello in a long time,” he said. “I’m free tomorrow. We could drive out to the coast, have dinner on the terrace, see the villa where it all began.”

At the mention of it, his expression softened.

We had met at a summer party hosted by one of the old families on the Amalfi Coast. By the end of the night, he had stolen me away from the crowd and kissed me on a moonlit terrace above the water. After that, there had never really been anyone else for either of us.

Every year on our anniversary, we went back to that same cliffside villa, as if returning to the place where we fell in love could keep the feeling untouched.

This year, when our anniversary came, Lorenzo had said he was too busy to make the trip.

Now I knew better.

He had probably been busy with Bianca.

I let out a quiet breath and shook my head.

“Another time,” I said. “My doctor told me to stay home and rest for a few days.”

He nodded and reached out, smoothing a hand over my hair.

I could let him wound me. I could not let him come any closer to the life I was carrying.

I turned slightly and avoided the touch without making it obvious.

His hand stilled.

“Sofia,” he said, studying my face, “I feel like you’re not happy.”

A pause.

“Is it because Bianca was standing too close to me while she was reporting?”

“She’s barely out of her teens. You’re not really going to hold it against a girl that young, are you?”

My heart gave a sharp, sudden throb.

Once, I had been that young too.

When I looked up again, my face was calm.

“No,” I said. “I’m not.”

Only then did his expression ease.

“That’s better,” he said. “There’s a Christie’s auction next week. Tell me what you want, and I’ll bring it home for you.”

An hour earlier, I had seen Bianca’s latest post on Instagram.

First time at Christie’s next week.

He says the final lot already belongs to me.

Under the caption was a photo of the two of them, his wedding band stood out like a wound.

I looked at him and said quietly, “No need. Buy it for someone else.”

Lorenzo’s gaze darkened, and he had just started to say something when his phone buzzed.

A message from Bianca.

Just one photo.

His bed in the private suite above the club, black silk sheets turned back, a woman’s garter tossed beside his cuff links and signet ring on the nightstand.

He looked down only once, but I saw the tightening in his throat.

“There’s a deal I need to handle,” Lorenzo said. “I’ll be away for a few days.”

Then he was gone, too quickly for a man trying to appear casual. But I still caught the anticipation he had not hidden well enough.

I thought of all the nights before this, all the times he had left in a hurry with some excuse about work. Then came the trips. More frequent. Longer each time.