GO TAKE HER ON OUR HONEYMOON

Vivian Cole found the two first-class boarding passes three days before her husband was supposed to leave Chicago.

One had his name on it.

The other did not.

She stood barefoot in the kitchen of their thirty-second-floor penthouse, seven months pregnant, one hand pressed beneath the weight of her stomach while Lake Michigan turned steel-gray beyond the windows.

The first ticket read Finn Cole.

The second read Petra Wyland.

Destination: Florence.

From there, a private car had been arranged to take them south.

Vivian knew the address of the hotel before she finished reading it.

She had slept there eight years earlier with her new husband, in a room overlooking vineyards outside Montepulciano.

Their honeymoon suite.

For nearly a minute, Vivian did nothing.

No scream.

No shattered glass.

No frantic call to a friend.

She simply stared at the reservation until her son moved inside her, a slow roll beneath her ribs, as if reminding her that at least one person in the apartment was still honest with her.

Finn came home at 9:47 that night.

Men in Chicago called him Mr. Cole even when he told them not to.

Building owners returned his calls before mayors returned theirs. Contractors changed schedules when he frowned. Men who had never been convicted of anything nevertheless became strangely respectful when his black sedan stopped outside their offices.

The Cole Syndicate was officially a network of construction companies, freight firms, real estate holdings, restaurants, and private security businesses.

Unofficially, everyone in certain parts of Chicago understood that Finn Cole inherited influence that did not appear on tax filings.

At forty-one, he wore power casually.

Dark overcoat.

Tailored suit.

No bodyguard inside his own home.

He walked into the kitchen smelling of cold air and expensive cognac, kissed Vivian near her temple, and crossed toward the bar cart.

Then he saw the tickets on the island.

His hand froze above the decanter.

Vivian watched him.

“Are you going to Italy?”

Finn did not immediately turn.

“Yes.”

“With Petra Wyland?”

Now he faced her.

Something subtle disappeared from his expression.

Not guilt.

Preparation.

“She’s connected to the European partnership.”

Vivian looked down at the tickets.

“Then why are there only two seats?”

“Viv.”

“And why are you staying at Villa Sant’Elena?”

His jaw tightened.

She continued.

“You remember Villa Sant’Elena, don’t you?”

Silence.

“Our honeymoon.”

“Vivian, it isn’t what you’re making it—”

“Is she sleeping with you?”

The directness of it finally reached him.

Finn set down his glass.

“This is complicated.”

A strange calm entered Vivian’s body.

For months, she had sensed something turning away from her.

Late calls.

Messages that disappeared.

Business dinners that began at seven and ended after midnight.

A particular distance in bed.

She had translated all of it for him because translating Finn Cole had become one of the invisible jobs of being his wife.

He isn’t cold. He’s under pressure.

He isn’t absent. The company needs him.

He didn’t forget. He has too much on his mind.

She had spent eight years turning his failures into softer stories.

Now, looking at the tickets, she realized the person most convinced by those stories had been her.

Finn stepped closer.

“Let me explain.”

“No.”

He stopped.

Vivian folded the boarding passes along the crease.

Then she slid them toward him.

“Go.”

His brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Take her on our honeymoon.”

He stared at her.

Vivian’s voice remained quiet.

“You already bought the tickets. You booked the hotel. She’s expecting you. Go.”

“Vivian.”

“I’m serious.”

“What exactly is this?”

She almost laughed.

He actually sounded offended.

As if her failure to collapse was somehow unfair.

“This is me getting tired.”

“Of what?”

“Making every ugly thing you do look less ugly so everyone around you can keep loving you.”

The words landed.

Finn’s face hardened.

“Don’t make this dramatic.”

That sentence destroyed something the tickets had not.

Vivian looked at him for a long moment.

Then she nodded.

“You’re right.”

He blinked.

“I don’t think I will.”

She walked upstairs.

That Sunday, Finn’s family came for dinner.

Vivian had organized those dinners for years.

Finn’s father, Bernard, was sixty-eight and took blood pressure medication with food.

His sister, Adele, was perpetually fifteen minutes late because her ten-year-old son, Oscar, lost shoes, notebooks, jackets, permission slips, or occasionally his entire backpack.

Vivian knew Bernard hated overcooked steak.

She knew Oscar liked his mashed potatoes without pepper.

She knew Adele drank red wine only after eating because otherwise she got a headache.

She knew Finn’s uncle avoided lamb but was too proud to request anything else.

Vivian knew everything.

That Sunday, she decided to know less.

When Adele arrived with Oscar, the boy ran inside.

“Aunt Viv! Uncle Finn said he’d teach me how to use the heavy bag tonight.”

Vivian looked at him.