Chapter 2
Elisa stayed at Marciano’s Upper East Side townhouse.
Not because she wanted to.
Because at one in the morning, carrying a sleeping four-year-old in a wrinkled birthday suit, she did not have the energy to decide where else to go.
Marciano gave her the third floor and stayed downstairs.
He also ordered his security staff not to enter her rooms without permission.
Elisa noticed.
Her brother had spent most of her life solving problems before she could decide whether she wanted them solved.
Their father had died when Elisa was eleven.
Marciano, already thirty-five, became part brother, part guardian, part wall between her and everything uncomfortable.
When Harlan came along six years later, Elisa loved that he did not treat her as fragile.
At least not then.
Harlan was older, self-made, and already working with businesses connected to D’Angelo House.
He talked to Elisa like an adult.
He made her laugh at Marciano’s formality.
When they married, Elisa believed she had finally built a life that belonged to her.
Dorothea changed after Luca was born.
At first it was advice.
Then corrections.
Then expectations.
Elisa should cook more.
Entertain more.
Dress differently around Harlan’s colleagues.
Stop letting the publishing staff treat her like an owner when she “only inherited the name.”
Harlan rarely defended her.
He called it keeping peace.
Elisa had called it marriage.
The morning after the birthday reception, her phone contained twenty-three messages from Harlan.
The first few were angry.
Then apologetic.
Then angry again.
Nothing happened with Meredith.
You embarrassed me.
Mom was out of line, but Marciano made it worse.
Come home so we can talk without an audience.
Elisa stopped at the word nothing.
She had not yet accused him of sleeping with Meredith.
He was already defending himself against it.
Marciano entered carrying coffee.
“You want me to have someone check hotel records?”
“No.”
“Phone records?”
“No.”
“Elisa.”
She looked at him.
“If I leave Harlan, I need to know I did it because I chose to. Not because my brother conducted a raid on my marriage.”
Marciano sat down.
That was difficult for him.
She could tell.
“What do you want?”
“I want facts.”
“Fine.”
She opened her laptop.
D’Angelo House had visitor logs because manuscripts, author contracts, and private family offices shared the same building.
Meredith’s name appeared dozens of times.
Normal.
She was an executive editor.
Then Elisa searched the Westchester estate’s gate system.
Meredith Lane.
Eleven visits in four months.
Nine after 8:00 p.m.
May you like
On six of those nights, Harlan had told Elisa he was working late in Manhattan.
He had been inside their own house.
