Alle Kapitel von Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi: Kapitel 51 – Kapitel 60

At seven twenty-three that evening, the town car stopped in front of a hotel in Nob Hill.The press line was already set up behind a small barricade. Not many, maybe twenty photographers and several business reporters, but their flashes made the hotel entrance look like someone was trying to turn on the sun manually.I waited inside the car for three seconds because I only gave people enough time to hate their lives before I improved their evening.My dress was black, simple, and fell to mid-calf. No sequins. No lace. Nothing about it screamed bride. The neckline was clean, the shoulders bare, the waist fitted, and the slit in the skirt showed just enough leg to remind society that marriage did not stop blood circulation.My hair was pulled back into a sleek twist, paired with small emerald earrings, dark red lipstick, and black heels that gave absolutely no impression of bridal softness.I looked more like a wealthy widow who had arrived to make sure her husband was actually dead.Wh

I woke up before my alarm.That was insulting enough.The clock on the nightstand read 6:12, the small blue digital numbers glowing with the confidence of someone who didn’t have children, didn’t run a company, and hadn’t just been subtly threatened by her amnesiac ex-husband at a foundation investor event with expensive champagne and lighting that was far too flattering.I lay on my back, staring at the spotless white ceiling, and for the first few seconds, my brain committed no crimes. There was only the distant sound of the waves, the soft hum of the AC, and the weight of the blanket across my waist.“You’re afraid I’ll remember.”I let out a long breath through my nose.Of course Rafael Vittorio Ricciardi had chosen the foundation’s investor night to start turning into a detective. Of course the man couldn’t experience amnesia politely, like a normal person. Forget an email password, forget a cousin’s name, or forget that he possessed the unique ability to turn my life into a lega

At nine forty-three, my phone vibrated again on top of my desk.It moved half an inch between a vendor binder and two linen swatches, then stopped with the screen facing up.Rafael Ricciardi.I kept staring at the lighting proposal on my laptop, drawing a red line through a number far too offensive for two hundred candles and six chandeliers that didn’t even have permission to be hung yet.Outside my office, GALA was already operating at full volume. The printer at the end of the hall was spitting out paper like it was suffering from administrative food poisoning. Jemima was on the phone with someone who kept referring to a temporary structure as a “large gazebo,” a crime against language I believed deserved to be handled by an international court. A junior planner passed behind the glass wall carrying three sample vases the height of a healthy child.My phone stopped.Then started again.I moved one linen swatch aside without looking at it.The sixth call since breakfast.Or the seve

I stared at the invitation for a few seconds.Then closed the calendar.By two oh-six, I was already in the car on my way home.Apparently, my dramatic speech this morning about having meetings until six had been a little too optimistic about my own work ethic.The vendor review ended before lunch. Marie emailed the contract revisions and, after reading the first page, I decided the woman was paid enough not to require my physical presence. Dianna could handle the approval deck, Jemima had already taken command of the war against the Paris florist, and there was no logical reason for me to sit in the office for another four hours just to prove I owned a chair.I owned a company so I could go home when I felt lazy.It wasn’t laziness. It was owner privilege.I texted Dianna from the elevator.[Going home. If something burns, call the fire department before me.]Her reply came before the elevator doors opened.[What about your meetings until six?]I stared at the screen.Traitor.[Confi

Apparently, I had a shift too.Not a work shift. Not a mom shift. Not a shift as a woman trying not to think about her amnesiac husband picking her up for an Italian family dinner with the potential for emotional torture and pasta.A sleep shift.It happened a little after three, when the twins were building a Lego city in the family room and I, with absolutely no sense of responsibility, lay down on my side on the rug because the couch was spiritually too far away.At first, I only meant to “supervise.”Five minutes later, Al parked his chubby body across my waist like I was his personal rest stop. One knee pressed into the side of my stomach, the whale shark tucked under my arm, while he worked on attaching a blue Lego piece and explained that the building was an “airport for sharks but no taxes.”Gabby sat a few feet away from us in front of the small table with a kids’ makeup set I had bought because one night I had been too weak, too online, and far too trusting of the words non-