"Are you going through my phone again?" Marco Rossi's voice came from the study doorway, that weary impatience like a dull knife cutting into my heart, sending sharp waves of pain through me.

I clutched his silver-gray phone—the matching couple's model identical to mine—until my fingertips turned white from the pressure.

"I just wanted to know why your already fired assistant would text you at 1 AM." My voice trembled with anger and hurt.

He approached slowly, trailing the expensive cologne scent of cedar and amber. What once comforted me now turned my stomach slightly.

"Work emergency. Give me the phone, Jane."

I stepped back, avoiding his outstretched hand.

"Work? What kind of work requires sending 'Goodnight, hope I'm in your dreams'? Marco, this is the third time this month."

"Jane." He used that coaxing tone again. Once I thought it held infinite tenderness; now it just sounded hypocritical.

"Emily was just being overly enthusiastic. I've already told her to mind her boundaries."

"Mind her boundaries?" My throat tightened, everything before me suddenly seeming ridiculous. "Your way of setting boundaries is saying goodnight to each other late at night? A month ago, in front of my father, you swore you'd fire her and cut all contact. Now it seems your version of 'cutting contact' just means finding more discreet ways to communicate."

Marco rubbed his temples forcefully—a gesture I'd seen countless times over the past ten years. He always did this when he was irritated or exhausted.

"You've become paranoid, darling. Where's that confident, carefree Jane Moretti I knew?"

"She's been ground down by lies!" My voice rose above the thunder. "Tell me the truth, Marco. What exactly is your relationship with Emily?"

Lightning flashed outside the window again, his weary, impatient face reflected deep in my eyes.

At thirty-two, Marco Rossi remained astonishingly handsome. His deep brown hair was immaculately groomed, amber eyes filled with tenderness under the light, and the corners of his mouth naturally curved slightly upward, exuding warmth even when he wasn't smiling.

Anyone who saw him would be unable to resist being drawn in.

This used to be my favorite face.

"She's my assistant, that's all," he said calmly. "Nothing more."

"Look into my eyes and say that."

He turned to me, his gaze unwavering, then repeated it.

"She's my assistant, that's all."

We stood at an impasse, with only the sound of rain tapping against the window.

Ten years of marriage, seven years of dating—I knew he was lying.

His right ring finger twitched slightly—an unconscious tell when he was nervous.

Finally, he sighed, grabbed his car keys, and was the first to break the silence.

"If you need proof of my loyalty so badly, I'll go buy your favorite tiramisu from that shop right now. The one on Dante Street that stays open until 2 AM even in storms. Hopefully that'll calm you down."

"Marco, it's pouring outside—"

"For you, darling." He turned at the doorway, flashing that smile that used to make my heart race. "For you, I'd do anything."

The door closed.

I stood by the window, watching his Bentley's headlights cut through the curtain of rain before disappearing down Tuscany's mountain road.

His phone vibrated suddenly in my hand.

Another message, from "Emily."

"Got home safe. The rain's terrible—worried about you. Same time tomorrow? Miss your kisses."

My fingers turned icy as my heart plummeted.

I replied: "Come over. The villa."

Almost instantly: "Really? She's not there?"

"She's asleep." I typed, then deleted it and rewrote: "She's gone."

Sent.

Then I deleted the entire conversation.

Forty minutes later, the hospital called.

Ten-Year Itch: My Husband's Fake Amnesia — Chapter 8

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