Chapter 8
By the time I returned from the board meeting, Isabella was gone.
The office felt emptier without her—chair pushed in neatly, laptop closed, no trace of the faint vanilla scent that clung to her skin. I hadn’t asked her to stay. Hadn’t told her to wait. But part of me expected her to read the unspoken command anyway. She didn’t.
I grabbed the flash drive I’d left on the desk, locked up, and headed home.
The shower hit first thing—hot water pounding my shoulders, steam filling the glass enclosure. My mind went straight to her. Isabella in the rain, dress clinging, hair plastered to her neck, lips parted as I backed her against a wall and...
There’s no such thing as warm rain in London.
Frustrated, I shut off the water, stepped out naked, and froze. My son, Lucian stood by the bed, staring down at my phone.
I didn’t speak. Just crossed to the towel rack, wrapped one low around my hips, then cleared my throat.
He turned. Flat expression. No guilt. No surprise. Just that blank, unreadable look he’s perfected.
Blond hair—nothing like mine or Valentina’s dark waves. Eyes shaped differently. Features that scream her more than me every single day. He acts like her too: secretive, sharp-tongued, quick to resentment. Not to forget they never respected privacy.
I walked over, plucked the phone from his hand. Screen lit with notifications. One missed call: **Angioletto**.
A slow, satisfied smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. She’d called. Even if it was a mistake, the name on my screen was hers.
“I know that’s not Mom’s number,” Lucian said flatly.
I forced my face neutral and headed to the walk-in closet. Pulled on navy sleep shorts, nothing else. Rubbed my feet together to shake off lingering water, then dropped onto the bed.
“Nice to see you too, son. My day was great,” I said dryly.
He caught the edge in my tone. Didn’t push. Instead he pulled his own phone from his pocket and held it out.
“I got my test results. Mom came by today. She wants to stay here for a few days.”
“No.”
I didn’t even look at the screen. He waited. I kept staring at the ceiling.
“Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
Silence stretched. Heavy. Familiar. That had always being our father and son conversation.
I finally glanced over. He was pouting—fake, performative, the way kids do when they’ve been coached.
“Your mom put you up to asking.”
He nodded once. Reluctant.
“We could be like other families,” he said quietly.
I exhaled. Softened my voice as much as I could manage.
“You have us. She loves you. I love you. We’re not together, but we’re not enemies. We just… need space to figure things out.”
He didn’t buy it. Scrolled through his phone instead—photos of classmates with both parents at events, vacations, birthdays. Every frame had two adults smiling on either side of a kid. Every frame except his.
He was always with Ethan or Elena. My secretary doubling as emergency driver. His nanny since he was in diapers. Good people. Reliable. But not parents.
Guilt twisted low in my gut.
“I work long hours, Luci. You know that. Tell Ethan ahead of time or text me—I’ll come for whatever you need. School events, games, whatever.”
“I’m twelve. Not stupid.” His face flushed red. Lips trembled. Holding back a storm.
I waited. He had ever right to be angry but his mom and I just can't be together no more.
“If you don’t like Mom, why did you get her pregnant?”
The question landed like a blade.
I couldn’t answer honestly. Couldn’t tell a twelve-year-old that his mother had been a casual hookup who kept showing up, that the sex was addictive enough I let it continue, that she announced a pregnancy I accepted—until I caught her six months along fucking one of my former business partners in my own guest room.
So I said nothing. No need to also tell him I wasn't really in love with his mom.
“Go to sleep, son.”
He yanked the duvet off me. Eyes blazing with that same hate Valentina used to flash when she didn’t get her way.
“That’s rude,” I said calmly, like I was talking to a toddler. “Let Daddy sleep.”
He released the blanket but didn’t move.
“Mom said you’d act like this.”
I sat up slowly. Was she telling him things?
“You should’ve asked her what she did when you were six months in her belly.” I snapped.
My voice stayed even. Anger simmered beneath it but I would not want to hear what he would use against her later. She deserves to be loved from her child.
I got out of bed. Walked to the door. Opened it.
“If you make me come get you again, I’ll send you to stay with your mother for three months. Full time.”
He froze.
Luci hated her place. Hated the revolving door of “visitors,” the small room, the spotty Wi-Fi, the way she left him alone for hours. One week and he’d be begging to come home.
“That’s what I thought.”
He walked out without another word.
I closed the door. Leaned against it. Sighed. I shouldn’t have threatened him. He’s just a kid. Brainwashed by her lies, sure—but still a kid. Still my kid and I love him.
I dropped back onto the bed. Rolled over. Grabbed my phone.
One new message.
From **Angioletto**.
I called my mistake. My phone was in my bag and it kinda bag-dialed. Please forgive me, Sir.
I snorted.
Bag-dialed. Who does that?!
It was barely eight. My thumb hovered over the call button.
No. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I see her in person. Tomorrow I make sure she replaces that entire wardrobe before she “blouse-dials” me in one of her mother’s old blouses.
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