Part 2

By sunrise, I had not slept.

The retreat suite around me looked untouched, serene, almost holy in its luxury. Pale curtains breathed against the open balcony doors. Somewhere beyond the hills, birds called softly into the morning mist. A silver tray of untouched fruit sat on the table beside a pot of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

And beside the marble sink, my wedding ring still lay where I had left it.

It looked smaller in the morning light.

Less like a promise.

More like evidence.

I stood barefoot on the cool bathroom floor, staring at it while Leonardo’s message glowed on my phone again.

Hope you’re relaxing, baby. Miss you already.

Baby.

The word made my stomach turn.

I had once loved the way he said it. Softly, almost lazily, as if affection came naturally to him. Now I could hear the lie beneath it. The performance. The careful sweetness of a man who had learned exactly how to make cruelty look like tenderness.

My hands trembled as I opened my photo gallery.

There they were.

The terrace.

The candles.

The champagne glasses.

Leonardo’s hand on her waist.

The brunette in the red dress leaning into him.

Her profile turned just enough for my mother’s diamond earrings to catch the light.

The bracelet.

My bracelet.

And one blurry photo where Leonardo’s face was visible as he kissed her.

For nearly an hour, I sat on the edge of the bed and studied every image as if they belonged to someone else’s life.

Then I zoomed in on her face.

Tall. Brunette. Elegant. Expensive.

His ex-wife.

Valentina Moreau.

I had seen her before only in old photographs, always carefully hidden in the past tense. Leonardo had described her as “unstable,” “jealous,” “impossible to satisfy.” He had told me their divorce had destroyed him. He said he barely spoke to her now except through attorneys.

Another lie.

I should have called my father.

I should have called a lawyer.

I should have packed my bags and disappeared before Leonardo could touch another piece of my life.

Instead, I did something colder.

I put my wedding ring back on.

Not because I forgave him.

Because I wanted him to believe I still knew nothing.

At eight in the morning, there was a knock at my suite door.

I opened it expecting breakfast.

Instead, Chiara stood there in a cream linen dress, her face pale and serious.

May you like

“Elena,” she said softly, “may I come in?”

Something about her expression made the room feel smaller.

I stepped aside.

She entered slowly, glanced toward the open balcony, then back at me. For the first time since we met, her warmth seemed covered by something sharper. Concern, maybe. Or fear.

“You went back last night,” she said.

It was not a question.

My heart dropped. “How do you know?”

Chiara pressed her lips together. “Because I saw you return.”

I stiffened.

“I didn’t follow you,” she added quickly. “I was outside near the entrance when your car pulled in. You looked… destroyed.”

I turned away before she could see my face change.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” she said gently. “You’re not.”

I laughed once, bitterly. “That obvious?”

Chiara did not smile. “Who was she?”

I looked at her.

For a moment, I considered lying. Then I realized I was too tired to protect Leonardo anymore.

“His ex-wife,” I said.

Chiara closed her eyes briefly, as if confirming something she already suspected.

“You knew,” I whispered.

“I suspected.”

“How?”

She hesitated. “Because I recognized her.”

The air shifted.

I gripped the back of a chair. “You know Valentina?”

“Not personally.” Chiara lowered her voice. “But I know of her. My brother works in private banking in Monaco. Her name appears often in circles where people pretend not to know each other.”

I stared at her, confused.

Chiara took a breath. “Elena, Valentina Moreau is not just an ex-wife. She is tied to several offshore accounts. Shell companies. Art purchases. Discreet financial transfers.”