Chapter 3 - Turning the Plane Around
The honeymoon in Italy lasted exactly twenty-four hours.
We landed in Rome under a brilliant Mediterranean sun, walked through the VIP tarmac exit into the cool leather interior of a waiting black Mercedes, and drove straight to a cliffside resort overlooking the Amalfi Coast. The suite was breathtaking—private infinity pool, white linen drapes blowing in the sea breeze, chilled vintage Krug waiting on ice.
It was a paradise designed for newlyweds.
And it felt like a prison.
I spent the entire evening pacing the marble balcony, my phone pressed to my ear, listening to an endless loop of ringing tones. Naomi wasn't picking up. I tried her cell, I tried her old landline number from her studio in Cambridge, I even tried messaging her through social media accounts that hadn't been updated in years.
Nothing.
Camille sat inside on the velvet sofa, watching me through the glass door. She hadn't unpacked her bags. Her designer luggage remained zipped and lined up neatly by the entryway, looking as temporary as our marriage.
At midnight, I walked back inside.
“I’m going back,” I said.
Camille looked up from a magazine she wasn't reading. Her face was completely dry, devoid of tears, showing only the fierce, unyielding dignity of a woman who refused to play the victim.
“I know,” she said softly. “I called the pilot forty minutes ago. The jet is fueled and ready for an immediate turnaround.”
I stopped, stunned. “Camille... I am so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know—”
“Stop apologizing, Elliot,” she interrupted, standing up and smoothing the front of her silk blouse. “If you stayed here with me while your head and your heart—and God help us, your child—are back in Boston, we would both be living a lie. My father gave you control of the logistics firm because he thought you had a spine. Go find your spine, Elliot. Go find your daughter.”
She walked past me toward the balcony, looking out at the dark, crashing waves of the Mediterranean.
“When we get back to Boston,” she added without turning around, “we’ll file for an annulment on grounds of fraud—your mother’s fraud, not yours. My legal team will handle the dissolution quietly before the society columns even notice. But Elliot?”
May you like
She turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto mine with fierce intensity.
“If that little girl is yours, and you let your mother win a second time... I will personally see to it that you lose everything else.”
