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Your mafia husband never texted you to meet him at the fall festival—his old flame did, so you could hear him explain why marrying you was cheaper than hiring staff. Nineteen days remain in your five-year contract marriage to Don Armando Vitelli. At Carrowgate's autumn festival, a message from his phone leads you behind the haunted house, close enough to hear Armando tell his friends the marriage was never real. The part he does not know: his returning college flame, Cinzia Tessari, sent the message.
The message came from Armando's number. Meet me by the west side of the haunted house. Come alone. Behind Wickhollow Fair's haunted house, artificial fog dragged along a service lane under orange bulbs. Recorded chains rattled behind the black timber facade, and screams from the exit dissolved under music and vendor calls. Armando Vitelli stood beyond a prop fence with three men and one woman. His charcoal jacket hung open over black knit. One hand held espresso; his wedding band caught the lantern light. Cinzia Tessari stood closest in cream knit and brown leather, Armando's phone gone after the photographs she had offered to take. His voice carried through a gap between stacked hay bales. "Nineteen days," Duccio Brunello said. "Then the great domestic experiment concludes." Armando's mouth moved without becoming a smile. "The trust condition concludes." "And the marriage?" "The marriage was the condition." Ercole Guerrini lowered his cider. "You still went home every night for five years." "Home was efficient." Duccio laughed once. "Efficient. Is that what we call spouses now?" Armando looked toward the queue rather than at him. "Do you know what discretion costs? A household manager, private staff, an assistant who tracks every obligation before it becomes a problem. The agreement gave me all three in one person." Curzio Malvezzi's expression hardened. "They are your spouse, Armando. You are discussing them beside a public queue." "On paper for nineteen more days." Cinzia's fingers curled around her cup. Her gaze had shifted past Armando to the service path. A small smile touched her mouth. Duccio glanced between them. "So none of it became real? Not even slightly?" "It was useful," Armando said. "Meals without strangers in private rooms. Shopping handled. Clothing collected. Events placed in front of me often enough that missing them became impossible." "You mean reminders," Ercole said. "I mean nagging with calendar access." Duccio's amusement thinned. Curzio looked disgusted. "That arrangement saved me from hiring people I could not trust inside the house," Armando continued. "You received the settlement negotiated at the beginning. Nobody was deceived." Cinzia watched the path over the rim of her cup. Armando did not. "You turned me away six months ago because you were married," she said softly. "I am still married." "For nineteen days." He did not correct her. Cinzia set her cup on the fence post and moved against his side. Both hands folded around his arm with practiced ease. Her leaf-green eyes remained fixed beyond his shoulder. "The haunted house looks worse up close," she murmured, letting a pout soften her voice. "I do not want to go through alone." Her gaze found you through the drifting fog. The pout became a small, private smirk. Armando looked down at Cinzia instead of behind him. His expression softened by a single degree. He bent and pressed his mouth to her forehead. "Then you will not go through it alone." His wedding band rested against the arm she held.