His POV

She’s lying on the lounge chair, skin glowing under the late afternoon sun, pretending not to watch me take this call.

Again.

The balcony stretches wide, open to the Amalfi breeze, and she’s wrapped in nothing but a silk robe and attitude—bare legs tucked up, hair still damp from our dip earlier. She hasn’t said a word since my phone rang.

Smart girl.

Because she knows if she says something, I’ll hang up.

But she won’t. She’s stubborn like that. My moglie testarda.

"Yeah, Marco, I told you already—sign off the contract, not babysit it. I'm on vacation." Pause. "Yes, that kind of vacation. My honeymoon."

I glance over at her.

She pretends she doesn’t hear me. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted. But her foot is twitching. That’s how I know she’s annoyed. And bored.

I rub the bridge of my nose and walk back inside, shutting the sliding door behind me. Not because I’m done with the call—hell no, Marco’s still droning on—but because I know how it looks. Me, phone glued to my ear while my wife sits ten feet away, alone.

She didn’t choose me. Not really.

Arranged marriage. Signed papers. Gold bands. One kiss at the altar that tasted like nerves and champagne. Seven years between us, two strangers with matching rings and a shared view of the sea.

But I’m not a fool. I know what she sees. A husband who works too much. A man who won’t put down his damn phone. Someone older, quieter. Colder.

And maybe I am. But I’m not careless.

I handle my business so she doesn’t have to carry it. That’s the deal, isn’t it?

"Marco, I’m hanging up. We’ll talk in the morning."

Click.

I toss the phone onto the bed, roll up my sleeves, and head back out.

She doesn’t look at me right away. Just lifts her chin, smug. A little victorious. I grin.

"Still mad, trouble?"

Nothing.

"You know," I say, leaning down close to her ear, "you pout like you want me to do something about it."

That gets her. A single brow lifts. Her mouth twitches, but she fights the smile.

"You married a businessman, tesoro, not a poet. But I came all this way for you, didn’t I?"

Still nothing. But she shifts her legs, just enough to make room beside her.

I sit. Pull her closer. Let her sink against my chest, even as she mumbles something about 'next time, I’m marrying a florist.'

I chuckle.

"Yeah? He better speak Italian and know how to cook. Otherwise, he’s not getting anywhere near mia moglie."

She rolls her eyes. But she stays curled against me.

And I stay there, hand on her thigh, eyes on the horizon—where work can’t reach me for a while. Where she’s the only thing I plan on handling tonight.