Page 10 of The Sicilian Billionaire’s Neglected Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

S HE’S HERE.

The knowledge hits like a fist to my solar plexus the moment I walk into Adriano’s living room.

Every nerve ending in my body fires at once, a full-system alert that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the pull that’s defined my existence for ten years.

My pulse jumps from sixty to one-twenty in the span of a heartbeat.

I can feel it pounding in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes.

I don’t need to see her to know. After ten years, my body recognizes hers like a missing piece clicking into place, an awareness that bypasses my brain entirely and goes straight to my bones.

Seven days without her vanilla-and-flowers scent on my sheets. Seven days without her soft breathing beside me in the dark. Seven days of waking up and reaching for warmth that isn’t there.

Dio .

The urge to find her overwhelms every other thought.

My hands clench at my sides, knuckles going white.

I want to haul her into my arms the second she appears.

Want to fist my hands in her hair and kiss her until she stops this nonsense.

Until she melts against me the way she always does, whispers those Italian endearments she thinks I don’t understand, comes home where she belongs.

Stop making this so hard , I want to roar. Just come back. Let things be the way they were.

Or maybe I want to beg.

The thought makes fury rise in my throat like acid, burning away the weakness.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Aivan Cannizzaro doesn’t beg.

Not for championships, not for contracts, and certainly not for women.

Even if that woman is my wife. Even if her absence feels like driving with no brakes, careening toward a wall at two hundred miles an hour.

“Aivan. Thank you for coming.” Adriano rises from his chair, all courtesy and hidden steel.

I force my face into its usual mask, though my skin feels too tight, like it might crack if I move wrong. “Where is she?”

“My wife is showing her the powder room.” His eyes assess me like I’m a hostile witness.

Takes in the shadows under my eyes that concealer couldn’t hide, the tension in my jaw that’s become permanent, the way my hands won’t quite stay still.

“Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Something stronger?”

“Just get on with it.”

Myca’s heels click against the marble as she enters behind me, sharp staccato sounds that grate against my already frayed nerves.

“Darling, don’t be rude. Adriano’s being very accommodating.

” Her hand slides up my arm in a gesture that makes my skin crawl, and I have to fight against the urge to shove her away.

“After all, this is a delicate situation.”

I’m carefully disentangling myself from her hold when I hear footsteps in the hall, and my pulse kicks into overdrive, blood roaring in my ears like engines at full throttle. My chest tightens, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Every muscle in my body locks, preparing for impact.

My wife finally appears in the doorway, and everything else fades to static.

Sienah.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. She’s lost weight.

In just seven days, her cheekbones cut sharper angles, casting shadows that weren’t there before.

The delicate skin under her eyes is bruised purple-black, like she hasn’t slept since she left.

She’s wearing a simple black dress I don’t recognize.

The fabric hangs loose where it should cling, the hem hitting just below her knees instead of mid-thigh like her usual choices.

Probably Shayla’s. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, not styled the way she usually prefers, and I can see her fingers trembling where they clutch the doorframe.

She looks fragile. Breakable. Beautiful.

My hands ache with the need to reach for her. To smooth away those shadows, to feel her warmth under my palms, to verify she’s real and not another dream that’ll leave me gasping awake at 3 AM.

Our eyes meet across the room, and for one moment, time stops.

The world narrows to just this: brown eyes meeting brown, ten years of history compressed into a single look.

I see everything in that instant. The hurt swimming in her eyes like drowning.

The longing she can’t quite hide, her pupils dilating despite herself.

The love she can’t quite kill despite what I’ve done to her, shining through the pain like sunlight through storm clouds.

And underneath it all, exhaustion so bone-deep it makes my chest constrict.

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat echoing in the silence between us. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only stand here drowning in her eyes while every cell in my body screams at me to go to her.

“Hello, Aivan.”

Two words. Soft. Tentative. Her voice wavers on my name, and I have to lock my knees to keep from crossing to her.

I nod once, the movement sharp and jerky. My throat works, trying to form words—her name, an apology, something—but nothing comes.

Then I turn, movements mechanical, and pull out Myca’s chair. The wood scrapes against marble with a sound like nails on glass. My hand on the chair back grips too tight, knuckles blanching. I help her sit, though every movement feels wrong, like wearing another man’s skin.

Myca’s hand brushes mine as she settles, and I have to fight not to flinch away. Everything about this crawls up my arm: wrong woman, wrong scent, wrong everything.

I can feel Sienah watching. Can feel the weight of her gaze burning into my back. When I glance up, her face has gone pale as bone, and something savage in me purrs with satisfaction.

Good. Let her see what it feels like. Let her understand that leaving has consequences.

(Even as another part of me dies at the fresh pain blooming in her eyes.)

Myca settles herself, crossing her legs so her skirt rides up her thigh. She knows exactly what she’s doing. “Thank you, darling.”

“Shall we?” Adriano’s voice cuts through the tension, but I barely hear him. I’m too aware of Sienah moving to her seat, the whisper of fabric as she sits, the way she won’t look at me again.

The distance between us might as well be an ocean. Three feet of persian rug that feels infinite. I can’t smell her shampoo from here, can’t hear her breathing, can’t feel her warmth. The absence is an ache, like missing a limb.

“Water?” Shayla offers, and I watch Sienah’s throat work as she swallows.

“Please.” Her voice is barely there.

She’s never been this quiet. This contained. In ten years, I’ve never seen her fold into herself like this, trying to take up less space in the world. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

“So.” Adriano leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Let’s proceed with the mediation attempt before we formalize anything.”

Mediation. As if ten years could be mediated. As if what’s broken between us could be fixed with legal terms. We don’t even have children to fight over. Just ten years of accumulated nothing.

“There’s nothing to mediate,” I hear myself say, though the words feel like swallowing glass. “The terms are simple. She gets what she brought into the marriage—”

“Nothing.” Sienah’s voice cuts through mine, soft but firm. “I brought nothing.”

Our eyes meet again, and this time I see something else in hers. Not just pain or love or exhaustion.

But defeat...and I hate how that terrifies me.

To know that she’s given up.

And to care that she has.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Myca interjects, her voice honeyed poison. “You’ll receive a generous settlement, of course. Aivan’s not heartless.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I watch Sienah’s fingers curl into fists in her lap.

“I don’t want his money.”

“Then what do you want?” The question escapes before I can stop it, rough and demanding.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment her mask slips. Raw pain flashes across her features, so acute it steals my breath.

“Nothing you’re capable of giving.”

The words hit me in the chest. I actually feel myself flinch, the movement small but there. Myca’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing in what she probably thinks is comfort.

My skin crawls at the contact. Wrong wrong wrong. Every instinct screams at me to shake her off, to reach for the right woman, to fix this before—

“If we could focus,” Adriano suggests mildly, though his eyes miss nothing. “There are assets to discuss. The Monaco property—”

“She can have it.” The words tumble out, surprising everyone including me.

Sienah’s eyes widen. “I don’t—”

“The cars, the investments, whatever she wants.” I’m unraveling, everything slipping through my fingers like sand. “Just—”

Just come home. Just look at me the way you used to. Just let me fix this somehow.

But the words stick in my throat, choking me.

“How generous,” Myca purrs, her fingers tracing patterns on my thigh now. “Though I’m sure we can negotiate something more...reasonable. After all, ten years isn’t so long in the grand scheme of things.”

I feel rather than see Sienah flinch. The small wounded sound she makes hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“Ten years,” she repeats softly, like she’s tasting the words. Testing their weight. “No. I suppose it’s not.”

Her chair scrapes back. She’s standing, swaying slightly, and I’m halfway out of my seat before I catch myself.

“I need a moment,” she says to Shayla. “Please.”

She turns to leave, and panic claws at my throat. She’s walking away again. Leaving again. I can’t—

“Sienah.” Her name tears from my throat without permission.

She pauses in the doorway but doesn’t turn. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand grips the doorframe for support.

“I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign.” Her voice is steady now, empty of everything that makes her... her . “Just send the papers when they’re ready.”

She’s almost gone when Myca speaks again, her voice pitched to carry.

“Don’t worry about Aivan, darling. I’ll take excellent care of him.” She leans into me, her breath hot against my ear as she stage-whispers, “Just like I did in the limo earlier. You remember, don’t you? How eager you were to—”

The sound that tears from Sienah’s throat is wounded animal pain. She spins, eyes wild, hand reaching out to steady herself against the wall.

And then—

She sees Myca’s hand on my thigh. Sees how close she’s pressed against me. Sees what this looks like, what Myca wants her to see.

The last bit of color drains from her face. Her eyes go glassy with shock, pupils blown wide with something beyond pain. Beyond betrayal.

Recognition.

She thinks I’ve already replaced her. Thinks I’ve already moved on. Thinks the limo was—

“No.” The word rips from my chest. “Sienah, it’s not—”

Her hand moves in what seems like slow motion, reaching for something, anything to hold onto. Her fingers brush the side table, catching the edge of Shayla’s crystal vase.

Time slows as it topples.

I watch her face crumble in the space between heartbeats. Watch the last thread holding her together snap. Watch her shatter as completely as the vase that’s about to—

CRASH .

The sound of shattering glass cuts through her words like a scream.

I’m on my feet before the last shard hits the floor, my body moving without conscious thought. Every instinct screams at me to go to her, to explain, to fix this catastrophic misunderstanding. The crystals scatter across marble like tears, like all the broken pieces of what we used to be.

Sienah stands frozen in the doorway, her face gone ghostly, her eyes fixed on where Myca’s hand still rests on my thigh. The look on her face—

No. Fuck. No.

It’s the same look from eight years ago. The night she begged me not to become her father. Not to break her the way he broke her mother.

And now she thinks I have.

Behind her, Shayla’s expression is unreadable. “I’ll get a broom.”

But I can’t look away from my wife’s face. From the devastation bleeding through before she locks it down, pulling that awful numbness around herself like armor. And suddenly I’m transported back to the only time we’ve truly fought in ten years.

Don’t cheat, Aivan.

Her voice breaking on my name.

Please don’t be like the man who sired me and made a fool of my mother.

One look at her face now and I know exactly what she’s thinking. What this looks like. Myca pressed against me, talking about the limo, about making me happy, about being eager...

My blood turns to ice in my veins. She thinks I’ve already betrayed her. Thinks I’ve already become everything she feared.

“ Sienah .” Her name comes out rough, desperate, torn from somewhere deep in my chest.

But my wife doesn’t even look at me this time.

“I’m s-sorry about the vase.” She’s addressing Shayla, and it’s the stutter that kills me. The way her voice sounds hollow, empty. Like I’ve finally broken something that can’t be fixed. “I’ll pay for it.”

She sounds numb. Finally, utterly numb.

Because I’ve hurt her beyond redemption.

The urge to tear Myca away from me, to cross the room and shake Sienah until she understands, until she believes me, is overwhelming. My muscles bunch with the need to move, to act, to do something other than stand here while she falls apart.

I take a step forward. “Sienah—”

She looks at me then.

No, fuck, no.

She’s looking at me like I no longer exist. Like the last ten years never happened and I’m just another man in a room full of people who don’t matter. The light that’s always been there when she looks at me...

That soft, warm glow of love I’ve taken for granted...

It’s gone.

Extinguished.

By me.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She’s looking at me like she’s already gone, like she’s already figured out how to stop loving me, and the possibility makes me want to—

To what? Beg? Plead? Fall to my knees and explain that Myca means nothing, that the limo was business, that I’ve been slowly losing my mind without her?

That I can’t breathe when she looks at me like that?

That I don’t know how to exist in a world where Sienah doesn’t love me?

Fear eats me alive as I imagine for the first time what it truly means to live without my wife.

And I realize it’s a life I’m incapable of surviving.