Chapter 8
Lorenzo rented a luxury cabin just down the road from the sanctuary, The great Lorenzo Visconti, reduced to stalking the grounds like a ghost in his Zegna overcoat. I treated him like the mountain air- present but invisible. No amount of designer suits or desperate gazes could revive what had died in my
heart.
Everything changed when Dr. Marcus Chen, my colleague from Johns Hopkins, came for a research follow–up. We were laughing about residency horror stories when Lorenzo’s legendary control shattered. He launched himself at Marcus, Rolex flashing as he swung.
I stepped between them. “Get the hell out if you can’t behave. This is a medical facility, not your Wall Street playground.”
After Marcus made his uncomfortable exit, I rounded on Lorenzo. He caught my hand, his eyes holding
that dangerous intensity that once charmed boardrooms.
“Come home, Sophia. Surely three years of exile is enough.”
The laugh that escaped me could’ve frosted glass. “Exile? Is that what you think this is? A timeout? Let me use smaller words: We. Are. Divorced. I. Don’t. Love. You. Which part is too complex for that Harvard
MBA?”
“Should I refresh your memory? You and Isabella, putting on a show in our bed. Making your blind wife fetch your condoms – real classy, by the way. Those fireworks spelling her name? Not exactly subtle.” Each word was a perfectly placed scalpel cut. “You wanted your midlife crisis. Congratulations – it’s
permanent.”
I watched the famous Visconti composure crumble. Before I could say more, the click of Louboutins
announced Isabella’s arrival – living proof of every lie. So much for “getting rid of her.”
“Touch him and I’ll end your little mountain doctor fantasy,” she sneered, before switching to her
boardroom mistress smile.
“Well, look who we have here. Should I call security to remove some strays from the premises?” My voice dripped with calculated disdain.
Isabella’s perfectly Botoxed face contorted. “Did you hear her, Lorenzo? She’s calling us dogs. Let me
show this backwoods healer-”
The sound of Lorenzo’s slap cut through the clinic like a thunderclap.
“Shut. Up.” His voice dropped to that deadly whisper that once terrorized Wall Street. “You’re exactly what she called you – a stray who forgot her place. Didn’t I make myself clear about disappearing? Next
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Seven Years of Love, Seven Minutes of Tra
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Chapter 8
time, I’ll make sure the restraining order sticks.”
