All Chapters of Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

I immediately grabbed the bottle of water, twisted it open too fast, and nearly spilled it all over my dress. “We should go home before something starts producing bad decisions.”The corner of his mouth moved. “Something?”“The atmosphere. Carbs. Ricotta. I don’t know. There are a lot of guilty parties.”This time, he actually smiled a little as he pulled his hand back, just enough to make my chest do that annoying thing that should’ve retired five years ago.He put his empty espresso cup in the cup holder, started the engine again, and pulled back onto the road.I ate the rest of my pizza with a sudden, almost religious level of concentration.After that, every red light became a personal problem.Because every time the car stopped, the world seemed to stop with it for a second. Rafael was only inches away from me. One hand on the wheel. His profile lit by the city lights sliding past us. I could see the shadow of his lashes, the line of his nose, the jaw that had once been the reaso

“One asked whether their event timeline was still safe because GALA might get pulled into Ricciardi litigation. One asked whether you were still personally available for their project or if you were going to be tied up with European family obligations now. And one…” Dianna looked off to the side, visibly suffering. “One asked whether we have an emergency bride replacement clause in our contract template.”I closed my eyes.“UNICORN NEED LAWYER!” Al screamed.I opened them again. “Perfect,” I said. “Reputation crisis, but at least the unicorn has representation.”Dianna pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jemima is holding off the vendor calls. Marie is reading the article while making tiny noises I’ve never heard from a grown attorney before. Tara sent seventeen knife emojis to the group chat.”“Tara’s being productive.”“Arsen said he can find the tabloid editor’s home address in twenty minutes.”“Arsen is also being productive.”“I didn’t respond to either of them because I felt like t

At four minutes to nine, I was already sitting in my home office with my laptop open, my second coffee on the right, a notepad on the left, and the expression of a woman perfectly capable of attending an international PR meeting in black lounge pants because the camera only showed her from the waist up.“GABBY, GET OFF THE COUCH!”“It’s my stage!”“That’s West Elm, not Broadway!”“I’m PERFORMING!”Al was crying from somewhere farther away. “She fired my shark!”“Shark doesn’t work for her, baby,” Kendra answered in the voice of a woman who had already lost her youth.I closed my eyes for a second.Seriously, if there was a man anywhere in the world who thought women got married for stability, I wanted to invite him to live in my house for twenty minutes without noise-canceling headphones.I straightened the white silk blouse I’d put on over my lounge pants, touched up my lip gloss, then opened the conference call link. My face appeared in a small box in the corner of the screen. Hair

“Don’t Arabella me in that boardroom voice,” I hissed, annoyed.“Listen.” Rafael huffed too.“I already have. That’s usually how the problem starts.”“The estate’s private wing will be closed off for them. No media. No donors. No luncheon staff allowed in. A dedicated security detail stays outside whatever perimeter you set. They don’t enter the house unless you approve it. No photos. No mentions. No names on any manifest visible to PR. If necessary, I’ll have an additional contract drawn up.”I leaned back in my chair.An additional contract.He said it like someone offering me a napkin.“You set the perimeter. You choose the staff. You decide access. You can bring Kendra. Or whoever usually watches them,” Rafael continued.“NO! I’M BOSS QUEEN!” came a voice from outside the door at the most perfectly timed moment possible.Then Al wailed, “Boss queen cannot arrest shark!”I closed my eyes.Dianna covered her mouth with one hand. Valentina blinked once, but I could see the spiritual

Friday afternoon, Napa greeted us with an offensively golden sky.There was a certain kind of light in wine country that made everything look like an expensive perfume ad: rolling vineyards, old olive trees, pale stone roads, cream-colored buildings with terracotta roofs, and air that smelled like warm earth, grapes, eucalyptus, and old money that had learned to speak quietly.The Ricciardi private vineyard estate stood at the end of a long driveway, behind black iron gates that opened automatically as our car approached. Rows of grapevines lined both sides of the road like tiny soldiers who all had trust funds. The main house sat on a low hill, large, elegant, and far too aware of its own beauty. Cream stone, tall black-framed windows, iron balconies, a wide terrace, a long pool off to the right, and a rose garden that looked like the kind of place rich people apologized without ever technically admitting they were wrong.I sat in the passenger seat of Rafael’s car wearing a champagn