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“Not for long.”
“He did say he wasn’t letting you go, didn’t he?” Maura reminded.
“Whose side are you on?” I asked, baffled.
“Always yours, darling.” She winked at me and went back to the kitchen.
The people sitting next to Dante’s table laughed then at something he said.
I didn’t knowthisDante. This wasn’t the man I’d been married to—the brooding, ambitious, workaholic who always had his mind somewhere else. This was someone different. Someone... carefree.
I didn’t trust him for a second.
We were getting ready to close, and Dante was still there. He’d finished his meal, and then he’d finished his bottle of wine. He’d also ordered dessert. He was the only guest remaining in the bistro, and I was way past ready for him to leave.
“Elysa,” he called out. “Join me for some dessert.”
He ordered my favorite:torta della nonna, a classic Italian dessert. It is a creamy custard-filled tart topped with pine nuts and powdered sugar. It was simple yet irresistible.
Heat rushed to my face. I came to his table. “I’m working,” I hissed.
“Take a break.”
“I can’t.”I won’t.
He smiled, completely unbothered. “Why not? You’re my wife, and I want you to join me for dessert. Surely that’s not too much to ask?”
I glared at him, but my staff was watching, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. Gritting my teeth, I slid into the chair across from him, shooting him a look that I hoped conveyed how much I hated this.
“What do you want, Dante?” I murmured.
His expression softened just enough to unsettle me. “To share this lovelytorta della nonnawith you.”
Lifting a forkful, he held it out, and before I could think better of it, I parted my lips, letting him feed me. Just like that, we shifted—from adversaries to something far too intimate in a single breath.
I had to hand it to Dante—he was smooth.
He had all the moves, and worse? They worked.
“Have your lawyers finished going through the divorce papers?” I asked, desperately wanting to put some distance between us.
The smile on his face didn’t waver, but his eyes were sharper. He casually swirled the glass of red wine in his hand.
“They haven’t even looked at them.”
“What?” If my eyes could get any bigger, they would have.
He put the wine glass on the table. “I have no intention of divorcing you.”
I blinked, stunned. “What?” I repeated like a fool.
“I’m going to contest the divorce, Elysa,” he said, his tone calm, almost casual. “I’ll take you to court if I have to.”
I stared at him, completely at a loss. “Why the hell would you do that?”
His gaze was steady and unflinching. “Because you’re my wife.” He looked at me long and hard and then added softly, “And because I love you.”
My mind scrambled for something to say, but all Icould feel was the heat rising in my chest and the tightness in my throat. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. This was Dante—calculating, manipulative, and always playing the long game.