She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.

He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.

She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.

It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.

The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.

And maybe that’s what everyone knew.

She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.

Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.

“You’re settling in then?”

Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”

“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”

So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.

“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”

She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”

“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”

She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.

“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”

Payton tensed, looked away. Why had she even bothered to offer? He’d never understood that she liked to contribute. Never realized it made her feel good to contribute.

“That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” Marco sighed heavily.