Chapter 2

Florence POV:

After a restless night following that glass of ice water, I woke up to the empty half of the king-sized bed. The sheets beside me were completely flat, untouched. Francesco hadn't come home.

On the nightstand, my phone buzzed against the wood. The screen flashed with the name "Dr. Edward Alexander."

I paused, cleared my dry throat, and swiped to answer.

"Good morning, Dr. Alexander."

A calm, gentle voice came through the receiver, carrying a steadying warmth.

"Florence, I hope I'm not waking you."

"No, I'm up. What can I do for you?" I got out of bed and walked across the rug to pull back the heavy drapes.

"I remember you mentioning a while back that once things settled down, you wanted to finish your PhD. A joint Ivy League program just opened up on my end."

My heart gave a hard thud against my ribs, my fingers tightening around the phone.

"An Ivy League program? But I've been on leave for almost two years..."

"Your talent shouldn't be buried in domestic chores, Florence. Besides, my sports PR firm, Alexander Consulting, needs a capable assistant. You can manage both."

Dr. Alexander had been my academic mentor before I gave up everything to become Francesco's invisible wife. I closed my eyes, flashing back to Francesco's icy glare at the clinic and Maria's sneer on the sofa.

"Thank you, Dr. Alexander. I'll take the opportunity," I said, my voice firmer than it had been in years.

"Wonderful. I'll email you the files. Come to my Manhattan office next Monday so we can talk details."

After hanging up, I walked straight into the walk-in closet. Pushing aside the loose, shapeless maternity dresses, I pulled out a tailored business suit I hadn't worn since graduation. I sat at the vanity and applied light makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes. The woman staring back from the mirror no longer looked like a pathetic appendage.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, Maria was running the vacuum in the living room. She stopped dead, her eyes widening slightly at my outfit.

"Ma'am, where are you going?" she asked, speaking to me first for once.

I didn't look at her as I picked up my handbag.

"Tell the driver to bring the car around. I'm going to the Cannon family estate."

I took the private elevator down to the underground garage, where Francesco's driver waited beside the black Maybach. He opened the rear door, and as I ducked inside, a heavy scent of gardenia perfume hit my nose.

Frowning, I glanced down at the crease of the leather seat. Wedged between the cushions was a tube of burgundy Tom Ford lip gloss.

I pulled it out. It was Candace's signature shade—the exact color she had been wearing at the clinic yesterday.

In the rearview mirror, the driver's eyes darted away nervously, and he let out an awkward cough.

"Ma'am, that's—"

"Save it," I cut him off coldly, tossing the lip gloss straight into the small trash bin by the console. "Just drive. To Long Island."

The car pulled out of Manhattan and merged onto the highway toward Long Island. Watching the city blur past the tinted window, my chest felt strangely calm.

An hour later, the Maybach rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Cannon estate and stopped before the central fountain. The estate butler opened my door. Taking a deep breath, I stepped up the stone stairs in my low heels, pushed through the heavy oak doors, and walked down the long hallway toward the sunroom.

The glass door to the sunroom stood slightly ajar. Low, tense voices drifted out. Francesco had arrived before me.

I stopped outside, my hand resting on the brass handle. Through the gap, I saw Francesco standing before his grandmother, Victoria Cannon, his jaw set tight.

"Grandmother, my mind is made up," Francesco said, his voice ringing clear through the glass. "I'm divorcing Florence. It's non-negotiable."