Erasing Mrs. Moretti

I let out a small laugh, as if he'd asked a silly question. "My friend Maria wants to go to Europe, but her passport expired. She was asking me about the renewal process. You know how she is with these things."

My tone was light and natural, with no hint of a lie.

Dante's expression immediately relaxed, and he even looked a little sheepish. "Sorry, baby. For a second there, I thought you were planning on leaving me."

His words made the other wives at nearby tables shoot me looks of pure envy. See how devoted Dante is to her.

I hid a cold smile behind my wine glass.

To the outside world, we were still the perfect, enviable couple.

At ten-thirty, the dinner party was winding down.

When we were the last two left in the restaurant, Dante came to my side, reaching out to hug me. "Tonight was perfect."

As he moved closer, a mix of scents hit me—cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and… that damn cheap jasmine perfume.

Jenna's scent.

The sickeningly sweet fragrance was radiating from my husband's collar and cuffs. He hadn't even tried to hide it. Or maybe he just didn't realize he reeked of her.

The churning in my stomach returned, stronger this time.

I shoved him away, clapped a hand over my mouth, and ran for the restroom.

"Alessia? Baby?" Dante followed, his voice laced with concern.

I knelt before the toilet, dry-heaving violently. My stomach was empty, but the bitter bile and uncontrollable rage kept coming.

"What's wrong? Are you allergic to the seafood?" Dante knelt beside me, trying to help me up. "Or did you have too much wine?"

The scent of him, of her, washed over me again, and another wave of nausea hit.

"Don't... don't touch me!" I pushed his hand away, my body trembling.

"Is it the smoke on me?" Dante frowned. "Sorry, I had a few cigars during that meeting."

Hearing that lie, the fire inside me finally exploded.

I slowly stood up, splashing cold water on my face, and met his eyes in the mirror. He stood there, the picture of innocent concern, as if he truly had no idea what he'd done.

"Cigars?" My voice was a low growl. "You know damn well what this is about!"

Dante froze, stunned. He had never seen me lose control like this. "Alessia, what are you talking about?"

I realized I'd gone too far and forced myself to calm down. "Nothing. My stomach just hurts."

The next morning, Dante insisted on taking me to the hospital.

The doctor examined me. "Based on your symptoms, it seems to be stress-induced gastritis. It’s often caused by emotional distress or pressure. Has Mrs. Moretti been under any particular stress lately?"

Dante frowned. "No. We had a wonderful time just yesterday."

"Well, perhaps it's seasonal," the doctor said, starting to write a prescription. "I'll give her something to settle her stomach."

Just then, Dante's phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, his expression tensing. "Sorry, it's an important call."

"Go ahead," I said flatly.

Dante stepped into the hallway to take the call, and I could hear his hushed voice. "What? Now? No, I'm with my wife at the doctor's... Alright, I get it."

He came back, an apologetic look on his face. "Baby, I am so sorry. One of my men needs to drop off some important documents. I have to run downstairs to get them. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Go," I said, nodding with fake understanding.

Dr. Ricci continued his diagnosis, but my attention was elsewhere. I walked to the window, pretending to admire the view, but my eyes were locked on the street below.

A few minutes later, I saw Dante.

But he wasn't waiting by the entrance for any documents.

Instead, he strode quickly across the street and straight into the building opposite us—a private OB-GYN clinic.

As I watched him disappear inside, the anger I felt was replaced by a cold, numb sense of release.

Just then, my phone vibrated.

A text from an unknown number.

[Sorry, Mrs. Moretti. Looks like he can't be with you today. All it takes is one call from me, and he comes running like a dog.]