The Don’s 89-Point Wife Chapter 06
Adriano failed to reach me for seven straight days.
On the eighth, he finally got through to Professor Laurent.
“Where is she?”
The old professor answered coldly, “In what capacity are you asking?”
“I’m her husband.”
“The divorce petition has already been delivered.”
“I haven’t signed it.”
“That’s your problem.”
Adriano lowered his voice.
“She just lost a baby. She needs someone to take care of her. I’m bringing her home.”
“Where were you when she needed you most?”
The call ended.
Adriano stood all day on the stone steps outside the Geneva interpreting center.
Years ago, when I worked until midnight, he’d waited there for me too.
Back then, I’d run out into the rain, and he’d opened his umbrella and pressed a still-warm coffee into my hands.
He’d said, “You come before everything else.”
Now the same black umbrella was soaked with rain.
No one ran toward him.
That evening, Isabella blocked his car.
“Adriano, I already explained to the publisher. It was all an editing mistake.”
“Move.”
“Are you really going to ruin me over Elena Bellandi?”
She grabbed the car door.
“You were the one who said she was only the best choice for marriage. You said feelings couldn’t interfere with judgment. That’s why I dared come back from London for you.”
Adriano looked at her.
“When did I ever say we’d be together?”
“You gave me a perfect score.”
“A perfect score means approval. Not a promise.”
Isabella laughed, but tears fell down her face.
“You scored her. You scored me. Now she’s gone, and suddenly you’re pretending to be deeply in love.”
“Adriano, do you even know what love is?”
He didn’t answer.
The black Maserati drove past her.
Back at the estate, an old notebook still sat on the long dining table.
I’d used it when I cooked.
During our first year of marriage, Adriano scored every Italian dish I made.
Saltiness of the pappardelle: 88.
Presentation: 87.
Nutrition: 89.
After that, I remade every low-scoring dish more than a dozen times.
On the last page was a recipe for his hometown pappardelle, passed down from his mother.
Beside it, I’d written:
Adriano only coughed twice today. He should be getting better.
No score.
He found the stack of certificates I’d left behind.
French, German, and Spanish simultaneous interpreting certifications.
International art appraisal qualification.
Jewelry design license.
International etiquette certification.
Inside each was a record of my study notes.
2:00 a.m. Adriano still isn’t home.
4:00 a.m. Heated the milk for the third time.
6:00 a.m. He said Isabella had a stomachache.
The notes ended there.
Adriano sat alone in the empty dining room until dawn.
The next morning, his assistant brought him an investigation report.
“Don, Signora received an invitation from the International Interpreting Center’s Mediterranean branch three months ago.”
“Three months ago?”
“Signorina Ricci intercepted the email. She also used your private seal to reply that Signora had serious psychological issues.”
Adriano looked up.
“How did she get my seal?”
The assistant hesitated.
“You gave Signorina Ricci unrestricted access to your study. You also said anything involving her was always the highest priority.”
The words landed like a slap.
For the first time, Adriano picked up his phone without ordering me to come back.
He spent a long time typing.
Elena, I’m sorry.
I didn’t know about the baby.
Can I come get you?
The messages went through.
No reply came.
Half an hour later, a lawyer delivered the formal divorce complaint.
The evidence list was long.
Misappropriation of premarital property.
Unauthorized control of family trust shares.
Misuse of a private seal.
Illegal interference with a spouse’s career.
And finally—
Copyright infringement involving Vivienne Bellandi’s Voices Without Borders.
The lawyer held out a pen.
“Don, Signora Bellandi said that if you agree to an uncontested divorce, she won’t pursue additional emotional damages.”
Adriano didn’t take it.
“What else did she say?”
“She said your apology came too late.”
“It doesn’t count.”
After the lawyer left, Adriano tore the divorce agreement in half.
But after tossing it into the wastebasket beside the fireplace, he crouched down again.
Then picked up every torn piece.