Chapter 6

The night we returned from the cruise, I crossed another day off my calendar.

Three days left.

I began to pull myself out of his life completely.

When Donatello worked late, I no longer brought him a glass of warm milk. I just closed the bedroom door and feigned sleep.

I started handing off the Family’s tedious legal cases to other lawyers. My excuse was perfect: “I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to hold up the Boss’s business.”

I even stopped tending to the rose garden in the backyard, the one I’d cared for with my own hands for three years. When the gardener asked if I wanted to prune the new growth, I just shook my head.

“Let them be.”

He noticed something was wrong.

Late one night, he caught me in the hallway as he was leaving his study.

“Avril, what’s going on with you?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

I kept my eyes down. “My shoulder still hasn’t healed. The doctor said I need more rest.”

He was silent for a few seconds. He reached out to touch my shoulder, then let his hand drop.

“Then get some rest.”

The next morning, he said, “Our third anniversary is the day after tomorrow. I want to take you to Las Vegas. There’s an auction. Anything you want, I’ll buy it for you.”

I shook my head. “My shoulder hurts. Can’t handle a long flight.”

He didn’t give up. “Switzerland, then. The villa in the mountains—”

“Too cold.”

Seeing the confusion on his face, and worried he’d figure me out, I made a suggestion of my own.

“Let’s just… go to that restaurant near the university. The place we first met.”

Donatello was taken aback. He probably never expected me to ask for something so simple.

But he nodded. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

After he left, I looked at the calendar on my desk.

Tomorrow, our third anniversary. The tenth anniversary of the day I fell in love with him.

In the box for the day after tomorrow, I’d lightly penciled in one word: Leave.

Ten years. Going back to where it all started seemed like a fitting end.

Before bed, I leaned against the doorframe and asked him, half-joking, “You’re not going to stand me up this time, are you?”

He looked up from his papers and, for once, actually smiled.

“No.”

I silently counted the other times in my head. He was late for our marriage license because he was driving Angelina to the airport. He missed my appendectomy because he was with Angelina at her therapist. He bailed on my birthday because Angelina’s ex was causing trouble. I stopped counting at eleven. There was no point.

The next evening, I put on a little makeup and pulled an old, cream-colored dress from the back of my closet—one I’d worn in college. I put a small camera in my purse and went downstairs.

Donatello was waiting by the car, dressed in a sharp suit. His eyes lingered on me for a moment.

“You look beautiful.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

On the way to the restaurant, for the first time in a long time, we actually talked. I told him I remembered the first time I saw him, working part-time at that restaurant, and how he’d saved me from a drunk customer.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I remember. You were wearing that dress.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I just nodded.

Outside the car window, the city lights blinked on, creating a brief, unreal sense of happiness.

Just as we pulled up to the restaurant, his phone rang.

He ignored it, hanging up immediately. “Nothing is interrupting us tonight,” he said firmly.

But it rang again, and again. Finally, he answered, and his face darkened.

I already knew. Only one person could make him look like that.

He hung up and turned to me, his eyes full of that familiar apology.

“Avril, something came up with the Family. I have to go. Right now.”

Family business. Such a useful excuse.

I looked at him and asked softly, “Can it wait an hour? Just one hour.”

“No,” he said, without a second of hesitation. “This is important. Next time, I’ll book the whole restaurant for you.”

I didn't try to stop him.

I got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, watching his headlights disappear down the street.

He was driving to another woman.

The night wind tugged at the hem of my dress.

In my heart, I said one last thing to him.

Donatello, there is no next time.