Page 4 of The Sicilian Billionaire’s Neglected Wife (A Painful Kind of Love #14)

“Y OUR CARDIOVASCULAR efficiency is off the charts, your reaction time is faster than it was five years ago, and your body fat percentage would make men half your age weep with envy.”

I shut my laptop as Coach Luigi finishes rattling off my latest performance metrics. The man’s been with me since I turned pro fifteen years ago, and he still gets as excited about peak physical condition as a kid discovering his first racing video game.

Luigi’s perched on the edge of his desk like some Renaissance gargoyle, compact and weathered, built like the boxer he used to be before he discovered he had a gift for turning ordinary drivers into legends.

His gym takes up the entire top floor of a converted warehouse in Monaco’s Port Hercule, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Mediterranean that most people would kill for.

I don’t notice views. I notice that my resting heart rate dropped another two beats per minute.

“It’s what’s expected,” I say, reaching for my jacket. Black today. Zegna, because their cuts accommodate shoulder movement without bunching.

Luigi throws a towel at my head. “Madonna mia, you sound like a machine.”

“Machines don’t win championships. Discipline does.” I catch the towel before it can mess up my hair.

“Bah!” Luigi waves a dismissive hand, gold wedding band catching the light. “You know what your problem is? You think too much like a—”

“Like a winner.”

“ Stronzo .” But he’s grinning when he says it. Luigi’s one of the few people who can call me an asshole and get away with it.

“I need to cut our session short today.” My phone screen shows nothing new. No messages from Sienah, but then she never texts during training. Never interrupts. The perfect wife who understands boundaries.

Luigi’s weathered face brightens. “ Ah, perfetto! Please extend my thanks to Sienah. She was a miracle worker last month with George.”

I pause in the middle of buttoning my jacket. “Who’s George?”

Luigi’s hands still on his gym bag. He turns to look at me with an expression I recognize from the track.

The one that means someone’s about to tell you your rear wing’s been illegal all season.

“George? My cat? Been with my family eight years?” His voice rises with each word.

“Your wife flew him to that specialist in Switzerland when the local vets gave up?”

Switzerland?

My mind races through Sienah’s schedule like I’m checking sector times.

When the hell did she go to Switzerland?

“The orange tabby,” Luigi continues, pulling out his phone. “My Elena was destroyed. Crying every night. Then your wife shows up like some kind of angel, arranges everything. Private jet for a cat! Can you imagine?”

I can’t.

I literally cannot imagine it because I had no idea any of this happened.

“She even stayed with Elena during the surgery,” Luigi’s still talking, scrolling through endless photos of a fat orange cat.

“Five hours in that waiting room,” the other man reminisces with a shake of his head.

“I’ve never seen Elena cry like that. But Sienah, she just sat there, calm as a saint, promising everything would be fine. ”

“When was this?”

“Three weeks ago? Maybe four?” Luigi shrugs. “Time flies when your cat’s not dying. George is fat and happy now, stealing my prosciutto every chance he gets.”

Three weeks. Four weeks. The numbers spin in my head like RPM readings. My own wife disappeared to another country, and I didn’t even notice she was gone.

“I need to go.” The words come out sharper than intended.

Luigi’s still talking about the damn cat as I head for the door.

The drive home takes thirty-two minutes in Monaco traffic. Thirty-two minutes with leather under my palms and the engine’s controlled fury nowhere near matching the thing building in my chest. Not confusion. Never confusion. But something that makes my jaw clench like I’m fighting G-forces.

Monte Carlo streams past my windshield. White yacht hulls bob in the harbor like toys in a rich man’s bathtub. The casino already throwing light pollution into the darkening sky. Everything in its place, everything running like clockwork.

Except...

My phone stays silent in its holder. No evening text from Sienah. She usually sends something around now. Small reminders. Little questions. Things I answer with one word while thinking about apex speeds.

The silence has weight. Like that half-second before you realize you’ve misjudged your braking point.

I take the corner toward home faster than necessary, tires singing that particular note that means I’m riding the edge. The gates recognize my car, sliding open to welcome me to my perfectly ordered life.

But her spot by the window is empty.

Third panel from the left, where she always waits when I come home. Where late afternoon light used to catch her watching for me. Ten years of that silhouette. Ten years of knowing someone was waiting.

The absence hits like unexpected turbulence. My pulse actually kicks up. Cardiovascular response to an empty window.

Cazzo.

I kill the engine but don’t move. Just sit there gripping the wheel. She’s inside. Has to be. Kitchen maybe. Or the garden. Or any of the dozen places a wife might be at 6:47 PM on a Tuesday.

But my gut knows different. That same instinct that tells you when another driver’s about to do something stupid. When rain’s coming before the first drops hit.

I grab my gym bag and head inside.

The house greets me with conditioned air and silence. Our foyer gleams with Italian marble and fresh orchids. White Phalaenopsis she replaces every Monday. Today’s are perfect as porcelain, scentless as silk.

“Sienah?” My voice echoes off high ceilings.

Nothing.

Then I see it. Candlelight flickering from the dining room. Soft jazz floating from the sound system. Billie Holiday crooning about foolish things. And movement through the wall of glass leading to the terrace.

I move closer, and there she is.

She’s standing at the railing, but not the way she stood this morning.

Not the way I’ve ever seen her. This is Sienah transformed.

The cream silk dress from Paris clings to every curve, the one I bought her last year that she saves for special occasions.

Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders instead of her usual elegant twist. She’s even wearing the diamonds I gave her for her birthday.

The ones that catch light like trapped stars.

She turns at the sound of the terrace door, and her face lights up, a vision of loveliness so damn radiant that just looking at her makes my chest tight. Her smile is pure sunshine, and she practically bounces on her heels like she’s been waiting all day for this moment.

“You’re home!” She moves toward me with that particular grace that’s always made me want to mess up her perfect composure. “And early! Luigi must have let you go.”

“He mentioned George.” I set down my gym bag, watching her carefully. Something’s different. Something beyond the dress and the candles and the way she’s looking at me like I’m about to hand her the moon.

She laughs, bright and musical. “That ridiculous cat. But Elena was so grateful. Did Luigi show you the pictures? George has gained five pounds since the surgery.”

“When did you go to Switzerland?”

A little flush creeps up her neck. She does that when she’s nervous. Or excited. “Three weeks ago. You were at Maranello for testing, and Elena called crying, and I just...I couldn’t let George die. Not when I could help.”

Three weeks ago. When I didn’t even notice she was gone.

“Come.” She takes my hand, and her fingers tremble just slightly. “Dinner’s ready. Your favorite.”

She leads me into the dining room, and I finally understand. The table’s set for seduction. Or romance. Or whatever this is. Candles everywhere, casting shadows that dance across her skin. Rose petals scattered like someone exploded a flower shop.

“Sienah—”

“Sit.” She’s already moving, pulling out my chair with flourishing gestures that speak of carefully planned choreography. “Everything’s perfect. I timed it exactly right.”

I sit because refusing would dim that light in her eyes. She disappears into the kitchen, returns with plates that smell like heaven. Osso buco. The dish that takes her four hours to make properly. Saffron risotto gleaming like gold.

“You cooked all day.”

Realizing this makes me feel guilty as hell.

“I wanted it to be special.”

And now I feel a thousand times guiltier.

My wife settles across from me, candlelight playing across her features. Making her look younger. Softer. Like the girl I married so many years ago, once upon a time.

“I know you’ve been busy with the new contract,” she says, pouring wine with hands that still shake slightly. “Gabriel’s been pushing hard for exclusive terms. But tonight...” She pauses, bites her lip in that way that makes my body tighten with instinctive need. “Tonight’s just for us.”

I take a sip of wine. Barolo . The good stuff we save for victories. “Sienah—”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last week.” She leans forward, eyes bright with anticipation. “About having three words to tell me. Words you’ve been waiting years to say.”

Last week?

What the hell did I tell her last week?

I rifle through memories. Conference call with Gabriel. Final terms. Exclusive rights. The biggest deal of my career finally coming together.

My wife is now smiling at me shyly, even blushing a little, and I’m just fucking...perplexed.

“I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”

Understanding dawns with the force of a high-speed impact.

Ah, thank fuck, I finally remember what I told her last week, and my lips curve. “The way you’re looking at me now...it’s obvious, what I planned to tell you, sì? ”

Every racing publication has been speculating about my next career move, and Gabriel and I haven’t exactly been subtle about our negotiations.

“So tell you what.” I lean back, watching her lean forward in response. “How about I give you a reward if you can guess what those three words are?”

Siena’s blush actually deepens.

Chi bedda. How adorable.

“But...I just...you really want me to say it first?”

“I can’t give you a reward if you don’t say it first.”

My wife takes a breath, and I nearly smile.

Truth be told, I don’t really give a damn what she says exactly. Royal Contini Motors. 4th World Champion. New F1 Challenge. It didn’t really matter. Whatever she says, I already know I plan to give her the world—

“I love you.”

I’m already leaning forward, ready to reward her guess properly. Ready to take her upstairs and show her exactly how those three words affect me when she says them. Ready to make her say them again and again until her voice breaks from screaming them...until I register what she actually said.

Did she just fucking say ‘I love you’ ?

I look at her, see my wife smiling at me with stars in her eyes, and my blood goes cold.

“You think I was going to say ‘I love you’?” The words come out flat. Incredulous.

A helpless laugh escapes her. “I got it wrong, didn’t I?“

For a moment, relief floods through. She’s joking. Playing . Everything’s fine—

“I should have said it in Sicilian!”

Ah, fuck, everything’s still not fine.

“Were you going to say ‘Ti amu assai? ” Her face lights up again. “Or maybe ‘ Ti vogghiu beni’? Did I—”

Hearing those words from her lips, words I’ve never said, words I’ll never say, and something inside of me just...fucking snaps.

“I don’t love you.”

The words come out low but violently sharp, and I regret them instantly.

I want to take it all back but it’s too damn late, with how the light in my wife’s eyes just as instantly disappeared, and all I see now are shadows of dashed dreams and shattered pieces of hope.

“Sienah—”

“I don’t understand.” Her voice is small. Lost. “You said you’ve been waiting to talk about this for years.”

“I have.” My jaw works, trying to find words that won’t make this worse. “Gabriel and I have been in negotiations for six years. The contract—”

“But when we married, you promised my feelings wouldn’t be disregarded.” She’s shaking now. Really shaking. Like she might come apart at the seams. “You promised—”

“And I haven’t disregarded them.” The words come out too sharp. Too defensive. “I’ve always been faithful. I’ve never—”

She jerks like I’ve slapped her. And suddenly I understand. All these years. All these years, she thought...

“You thought I meant I would try to love you back?” Disbelief makes my voice rough.

Her laugh is nothing like the musical sound from minutes ago. This is broken glass. This is everything wrong.

“I know it sounds stupid, right?” Tears stream down her face now, but she doesn’t wipe them. “But yes, I thought you meant that, and it’s why I waited all these...t-ten years.” Her voice cracks on the number. “I waited and I believed that someday you’d...”

I reach for her instinctively, wanting and needing to touch her and fix what I never meant to break.

But my wife jerks away from my hand like it’s poison, and I just...freeze.

In all the years we’ve been married, she’s never refused my touch.

Never looked at me like I’m the enemy instead of her husband.

Until now.

“I want out.”

Three words. Different from the ones she expected. Different from the ones I planned.

Three words that change everything.