Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of Absence
The question hung in the warm, garlic-scented air of the penthouse kitchen like a ghost trying to find its voice.
Lorenzo looked at Vivien standing by the marble island, her dark hair pinned up loosely, wearing a simple cream cashmere sweater that hid the slight, subtle swelling of her lower stomach. For a split second, something softened behind his dark eyes—a flicker of the man who used to lay his head in her lap on quiet Sunday afternoons before the Moretti empire swallowed his days whole.
"I'm not hungry, Vivien," Lorenzo said, unbuttoning his dark wool coat and drape-draping it over the back of a barstool. "I have twenty minutes before the Baltimore crew lands at Teterboro. I just came back to change my shirt."
Vivien held the wooden spoon in her hand. The sauce boiled lazily on the stove, thick and red, popping with small bursts of steam.
"Twenty minutes," she repeated softly.
Lorenzo didn't catch the flat, dead tone in her voice. He was already unbuttoning his cuff links, setting the heavy gold studs onto the marble counter. "Dale Hampton is trying to pull out of the waterfront deal. I need to meet Victor at the hangar before the midnight shift begins."
He walked toward the master bedroom. He didn't ask her how her day was. He didn't ask why she was making pasta at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night. He didn't notice the small white envelope from the prenatal clinic sitting on the console table behind the vase of fresh orchids, half-hidden beneath a stack of financial reports he had brought home three days ago.
Vivien set the wooden spoon down. She turned off the gas flame under the pot.
She walked into the bedroom, stopping at the threshold. Lorenzo had pulled off his black shirt and was reaching into the walk-in closet for a fresh, crisp white dress shirt. His back was to her—a back scarred by a bullet wound from six years ago, a physical reminder of the world he belonged to.
"Lorenzo," she said.
"Yeah?" he replied, his voice muffled as he pulled the shirt over his broad shoulders.
"Do you remember the beach house?"
Lorenzo paused, his hands freezing on the second button of his collar. He looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. His brows pulled together in brief confusion.
"The plans you drew?" he asked. "The house in Maine?"
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"I'm going to go there tomorrow," Vivien said, her tone steady, devoid of the hesitation that had defined her voice for the last twelve weeks. "I need some air. I need to get away from the city."
Lorenzo turned around, fastening his wrist cuffs. He looked at her, his sharp eyes scanning her face, looking for the anger he usually expected when he missed dinners or canceled weekend trips. But he found no anger. He found only a quiet, opaque stillness that he had never seen in her before.
His phone buzzed in his trousers pocket.
He reached for it automatically, tapping the screen to silence the call. "Maine? Vivien, it's November. It's freezing up there, and the house isn't even built. There's only the old caretaker's cottage on the property."
"The cottage has a fireplace," Vivien said. "And it's quiet."
Lorenzo sighed, running a heavy hand over his face. He walked up to her, stopping a foot away. He reached out, his long fingers touching her cheek. His hand was warm, smelling faintly of cedarwood and expensive leather.
"Give me two weeks," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dropping into the gentle register he reserved only for her when they were entirely alone. "Let me finish this Baltimore situation and lock down the senator. Then I'll take a week off. We'll go somewhere warm. Saint Barth's, or the villa in Tuscany. Wherever you want."
Vivien looked at him—really looked at him. She looked at the fan of fine lines around his dark eyes, the set of his mouth, the power that radiated from him even when he was trying to be gentle.
Two weeks.
He had offered her two weeks every month for three years.
"I don't want Tuscany, Lorenzo," she said softly, leaning into his hand for one last, fleeting second before stepping backward, out of his reach. "I just want to go to Maine."
His phone buzzed again. This time, it didn't stop.
Lorenzo looked at his phone, his jaw tightening as he saw Victor's name on the screen. He looked back at Vivien, feeling a strange, sudden tightness in his chest that he couldn't quite explain.
"Fine," Lorenzo said, buttoning his jacket. "Take the driver. Take Marco with you for security."
"I don't need Marco," Vivien said. "I want to go alone."
"You don't go anywhere alone, Vivien," Lorenzo snapped, his protective instincts instantly hardening into authority. "Not right now. Not while the city is volatile."
"Then I'll take Marco," she lied smoothly, offering him a small, empty smile. "Go. Victor is waiting."
Lorenzo stared at her for a long second, feeling as if he were standing on the edge of a gap he hadn't noticed forming. But the weight of his empire pulled at his shoulders, urgent and loud, and he allowed himself to be pulled away.
He leaned down, pressing his lips against her forehead. "I'll call you when I land in Baltimore."
"Goodbye, Lorenzo," she said.
He didn't notice that she didn't say see you soon. He turned, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the penthouse. The heavy oak front door clicked shut behind him, the sound ringing through the empty rooms like the close of a vault.
May you like
Vivien stood in the silent living room. She walked to the console table, picked up the white envelope from the prenatal clinic, and opened it. She pulled out the latest ultrasound image—her baby, now sixteen weeks along, perfectly formed, moving quietly inside her.
She folded the picture, placed it inside her purse, and walked into her office to pack her bags.
