If this is going to work—this illusion, this stunt, this beautiful disaster—we’re going to need a truce. And that starts with making room for my wife. I don’t want her feeling like a guest or an accessory to my life—even if this whole thing has to stay secret. Even if she’d rather be anywhere else.
Her SUV pulls into the driveway like a warning shot. I don’t move. Just sip my espresso and listen to the quiet parts of the morning slip away.
She steps out, and the cup nearly slips from my grip.
She’s wearing one of those damn workout sets she always wears and this one might be the death of me. Cream-colored, soft and barely there, the fabric clings like it’s in love with her. The pants are sheer on the sides, hugging every curve like they were custom-inked onto her body. The matching jacket is cropped and open just enough to expose a sliver of skin and cleavage.
I grip the counter instead of the cup.
Dio mi aiuti.
I live in Cinnamon Hills, an exclusive gated community tucked inside Cinnamon Grove—a neighborhood where every home looks like it belongs on the cover of a luxury architecture magazine. Clean white exteriors, glass-paneled facades, minimalist landscaping, sharp lines, and matte black finishes. The kind of place where electric vehicles charge quietly in the driveway and you’re more likely to run into a pro athlete or tech founder than a neighbor walking their dog.
When I first moved here, I got lucky and ended up renting a house from Damond Battles, an NBA star who’d just been traded to Phoenix. He was supposed to be gone already, but I arrived in Atlanta earlier than expected and we overlapped. I had to stay in the house while he packed up to leave for his new home. I figured it’d be awkward, two strangers passing in the halls. But instead, we hit it off. He introduced me to a few of his teammates, helped mesettle in, even gave me the inside tips on the best gyms and lowkey restaurants in town where fans wouldn’t bother me.
When I mentioned I wanted to turn one of the guest rooms into a walk-in closet for my wife, Damond laughed so hard he nearly dropped his protein shake, then immediately demanded the full story. Once I gave him the abridged version (minus all the emotional landmines), he shook his head, grinned, and said, “You’re already fucked, man.” Then he sent over the best contractor in the city, told me to spare no expense, and made sure the job got done right.
Now even members of the NBA are invested in my marriage’s success.
She’s gorgeous, my wife. And if she weren’t so damn stylish, I’m convinced she’d be in full mourning attire with head-to-toe black and dramatic sunglasses, like she’s arrived for a funeral. Most likely mine.
“Welcome home, my love,” I say with a slow smirk, leaning against the doorframe like I’ve been waiting for this moment all morning.
Maybe my whole life.
She doesn’t even blink. Just breezes right past me with two duffle bags slung over her shoulder like weapons.
“Where am I sleeping?”
“No hello kiss?” I toss back, trying to keep it light.
She stops long enough to fix me with a sharp glare. Jesus. It felt like it was straight from the playbook of my Nonna—deadly, silent and absolutely final.
“Fine. No kiss,” I mutter under my breath. “Follow me.”
I sigh and push off the doorframe, letting the smug grin drop as I lead her through the house. The floors are polished concrete, sleek and cool under our feet, the high ceilings giving the space a museum or gallery-like quiet. Sunlight pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off white walls and beautiful art pieces Marlow doesn’t even glance at.
We turn a corner and head down the private hallway toward the guest wing. “This will be your room,” I say, opening a set of double doors.
The space is massive. Modern. Elegant. A king-sized platform bed with a low-profile headboard, layered in crisp white linens and soft charcoal throws. Clean-lined nightstands with built-in wireless charging. A minimalist glass desk sits beneath a wall-mounted smart screen. On the far side, sleek black doors open to a walk-in closet—unfinished, waiting for her touch—and a spa-like en suite bathroom with slate tiles, a soaking tub, and rainfall shower.
“You can change anything you want,” I say, stepping aside to let her walk in. “Paint, furniture, layout—whatever makes you feel more at home.”
She drops the duffles with a thud. Doesn’t even look around. “I won’t be here long enough to redecorate.”
I nod slowly. “Still trying to figure out your escape plan?”
“Absolutely,” she mutters, brushing past me again, this time toward the closet. “This isn’t my home. It’s just another mess I have to clean up.”
Her fire doesn’t scare me. She thinks it’s a shield, that all this edge and attitude will keep me at arm’s length. But all it does is draw me in closer. I’m a heat-seeking missile, and she’s both the target and the trigger—my detonator, my ruin.
“Well, Americana,” I say, my voice low, smooth. “I was hoping to begin ourmessamicably. Perhaps by sharing dinner tonight?”
“I can’t,” she says, too fast.
I frown. “Don’t tell me you have a date on our first night living together.”
“It’s a standing dinner. With my father. Every Sunday.”