Chapter 4

On the top floor of the Vitale family’s new headquarters, a champagne cork struck the ceiling with a sharp pop.

Several of Matteo’s oldest friends raised their glasses, laughing until they could barely speak.

“You really do know what you’re doing, Matteo. Elena flew all the way back because none of us would answer her calls. She found out you’d called Nora instead, and now she’s still obediently packing at the apartment.”

“It’s called training,” another man said, swirling his drink. “If the future mistress of a family can’t control a little emotion, how is she supposed to hold her position?”

Matteo lounged against the leather sofa, one ankle resting over the opposite knee.

He said nothing. He only checked his watch.

Nora stood some distance away, reviewing the reception guest list. She poured his wine, then immediately returned to her work. Matteo did not give her a second look.

It was already past eight.

Even allowing for traffic, the movers should have finished. Elena should have arrived at headquarters by now.

The faint curve at the corner of Matteo’s mouth gradually disappeared.

He took out his phone and dialed my number.

“Still not done? Do you want me to send a few men to help?”

My voice did not answer.

An automated recording did.

WE’RE SORRY. THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE.

Matteo went still.

His friends continued talking and drinking around him, but the room suddenly seemed to recede from his senses.

Frowning, he ended the call and tried again.

The same precise, indifferent recording greeted him.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE.

“Sir?” Nora approached with her tablet. “Is something wrong?”

Matteo surged to his feet. She instinctively reached for his coat, and he snatched it away.

“Don’t touch my things.”

Nora froze.

He did not look at her again. He seized his keys and strode toward the private elevator.

As the doors closed, the smiles on his friends’ faces had not quite disappeared.

His black sports car shot from the underground garage and tore through the night.

The tendons stood out across Matteo’s hands as he gripped the wheel.

He told himself I had simply changed my number. Perhaps my phone had failed. Perhaps I was still angry about the calls.

That morning, I had been packing.

I had wanted the wedding for years. I loved him. How could I possibly have left?

He called again at a red light.

The recording began. He hung up before it finished.

The car stopped so sharply outside the apartment building that the tires screamed.

Matteo jumped out without turning off the engine. He ran upstairs and unlocked the door with his spare key.

“Elena, what the hell are you doing?”

His shout vanished into silence.

The four boxes were gone.

The clothes I wore every day were missing from the wardrobe. The expensive gowns he had bought me still hung untouched. My cosmetics and toothbrush had vanished from the bathroom. The blanket I always used was no longer folded on the sofa. The computer, drawings, and books had disappeared from the study.

Only his possessions remained.

Matteo stopped in the center of the living room, his breathing increasingly rough.

His eyes fixed on the dining table.

A plain silver ring lay on top of the cancellation agreement for our wedding venue.

He had bought the ring at a winter market five years earlier, before he became heir. It had cost almost nothing, but I had worn it every day since.

Now I had left it behind with everything else he had given me.

Matteo lifted the pages with an unsteady hand.

They were signed the previous night.

While his friends laughed about leaving my calls unanswered, I had already decided to cancel the wedding.

When I said I was waiting for the movers that morning, I had not surrendered. The boxes he imagined on their way to the Vitale estate were not even remaining in the same city.

He took out his phone again.

The call history was still there. My name filled the screen, one missed call after another.

He had watched them come in without answering.

Now he pressed my name.

THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE.

At the airport, a boarding announcement rang through the terminal.

“Flight 807 to New York is now boarding. Passengers should proceed to the gate with their travel documents.”

I extended the handle of my suitcase and joined the line for the jet bridge.

My old number was gone. The new phone in my hand contained a newly activated SIM and almost no contacts.

Before boarding, I opened a blank message and entered Matteo’s private number.

YOUR TRAINING WORKED, MATTEO.

FROM NOW ON, I WILL NEVER ASK WHERE YOU ARE, WHO YOU’RE WITH, OR WHETHER YOU COME HOME ALIVE.

THE ENGAGEMENT IS CANCELED.

WE’RE OVER. DON’T LOOK FOR ME.

I pressed send.

By the time the message showed as delivered, I was inside the aircraft.

The flight attendant closed the cabin door and asked everyone to switch their phones to airplane mode.

I looked through the window at the familiar city one final time.

Then I darkened the screen.

The aircraft eased away from the gate.

The countdown to my departure reached zero.

In the empty apartment, Matteo’s phone lit up.

He reached for it at once.

For a moment, his shoulders loosened. He opened the message, still expecting an apology.

Then he read it.

His eyes stopped on the words WHETHER YOU COME HOME ALIVE.

He stood motionless, the cancellation papers slipping from his hand.

Only hours earlier, he had promised his friends I would call before midnight.

Now he stared at the unfamiliar number, afraid that I would never answer him again.