Alessandro's marriage was dying in the same penthouse where his relationship with Sienna had ended.
Different penthouse, same outcome. Funny how that worked.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tribeca apartment he shared with Vanessa, watching the sunrise paint the Hudson River in shades of amber and rose, and tried to remember the last time he'd felt anything other than numb.
Three weeks since the gallery opening. Three weeks of Vanessa's cold silence punctuated by cutting remarks. Three weeks of sleeping in separate bedrooms and eating separate meals and living separate lives under the same expensive roof.
Marriage, Castellano style.
His phone sat on the marble counter behind him, screen dark. No messages from Sienna. She hadn't responded to any of his texts since the gallery. Not the apology. Not the "I just want to talk." Not even the drunk message he'd sent at midnight last Thursday that simply said: I miss you.
Read. Not answered.
