THE PILOT’S EX WIFE

02

Ettore enters the kitchen, his aura commanding attention without him uttering a word. Standing tall and strong, his presence fills the room with an undeniable magnetism.

His sleek, jet-black hair falls effortlessly, framing his face in a way that accentuates his chiseled features. His eyes, a piercing shade of azure blue, seem to shimmer with a depth that draws you in, leaving you captivated by their intensity.

Every movement he makes is deliberate, exuding a sense of confidence and allure that is impossible to ignore. Ettore furrows his brow slightly, as if he didn't expect to see me.

"Good morning!" I chirp, mustering up a facade of cheerfulness.

Despite the gnawing realization that Ana Lucca is likely occupying his thoughts and bed, I refuse to let it dampen my spirits. After all, tomorrow is his birthday, a day where I will stand by his side, adorned in elegance, and be acknowledged as Mrs. Del Vecchio.

"I made the coffee," I offer, motioning towards the steaming cup on the counter.

Ettore settles into a chair, his attire immaculate as always — perfectly tailored jeans hugging his frame, a crisp white shirt accentuating his strong physique, and a sleek leather jacket completing the ensemble.

"Are you heading out?" I ask, my tone betraying a hint of curiosity and apprehension.

"I have a test race today. I will be back late," he informs me.

"Can I come watch you race?" I try my luck.

I always look forward to attending his races, but he seldom lets me accompany him. He explains that photographers and journalists are constantly present, and he prefers to keep his personal life out of the headlines.

"It'll be swarming with photographers. It's better not to," he replies.

I lower my head. It's always the same response. But I would love to grace the cover of a magazine as Ettore Del Vecchio's wife. Yet the only thing he allows to grace magazine covers are his achievements and victories.

Apparently, I am none of those to Ettore.

"Please," I press, a note of desperation creeping into my voice.

"Ask the driver to take you later then," he suggests, his tone cold and dismissive.

Ettore doesn't even glance at the coffee I prepared for him. Instead, he immerses himself in his phone, his brows furrowed in concentration. It's clear he has no intention of engaging in further conversation.

"I can go with y..." My words falter as Ana saunters into the kitchen, her presence casting a chilling shadow over the room.

She looks even more stunning than in the photos. Her black hair is haphazardly tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, and her brown eyes seem tired, with faint traces of sleep evident.

Draped in one of Ettore's shirts, it hangs loosely on her slender figure, accentuating her delicate features. As I observe her, a wave of sadness and insecurity washes over me, highlighting the stark contrast between her effortless allure and my own perceived inadequacy.

"Good morning," Ana greets.

She approaches, her fingers lingering on Ettore's shoulder in an intimate gesture, and she casts a smile in my direction, as if the events of the previous night hadn't unfolded between her and my husband.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Ettore asks.

"Too well. You could've woken me up," she jokes.

I watch it all unfold as if I am not even here.

"We haven't been introduced. I am Ana. And you must be... Lisa," she says with a hint of acidity in her tone, her words dripping with subtle condescension.

"It's Elisabeth," I correct, my voice barely above a whisper, feeling a pang of insecurity wash over me.

"Ah, of course! Elisabeth."

Ana grabs the coffee cup, her grip tight and deliberate. With a flick of her wrist, she brings the cup to her lips, taking a long sip. Then, with a sudden jerk, she forcefully expels the liquid, aiming it directly at me.

The scalding hot coffee splashes across my clothes, searing my skin with its heat. The shock of the attack renders me speechless, my heart pounding in my chest as I struggle to comprehend the humiliation of the moment.

"I am so, so sorry," Ana raises her hands in a mocking gesture of innocence. "I am really sorry, but that coffee was awful!"

Ettore's gaze lands on me, his expression steeped in irritation, as though blaming me for the mishap.

Cecilia strides into the kitchen, her commanding presence accentuated by her piercing blue eyes and the elegant cascade of silver strands in her perfectly styled hair.

Clad in a tailored suit that exudes sophistication, she announces, "Good morning," her gaze landing on me with an unmistakable intensity. "What's this? You're a mess, girl," she remarks, her tone dripping with disdain, leaving me feeling small and insignificant.

"I accidentally spat on her because the coffee was bitter. I will clean it all up," Ana says.

"No need. Someone will take care of it later," Ettore intervenes, his indifference cutting deeper than any insult.

"Go clean yourself up," Cecilia orders me, her voice laced with contempt, "and call someone to clean up this mess." Her command reinforces my sense of worthlessness, leaving me to silently comply.

I rush out, but Cecilia's words pierce through me like knives. "In three years, she hasn't learned to make a decent coffee? She's not fit to be a Del Vecchio, darling."

"I am sorry for the mess, Mrs. Del Vecchio. Ettore was so kind to let me stay, and look at the mess I made on the first morning," Ana's voice echoes with false remorse.

"Oh, love, I would never blame you! How could you have known the coffee was bitter?" Cecilia's tone drips with sympathy.

"I couldn't," Ana replies softly, her words adding to the weight of my humiliation.

"Stay for as long as you need," Ettore says, his tone polite and accommodating, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor with me. "I am off."

"Can I go with you?" Ana asks.

"Can you get ready in 15 minutes?" Ettore responds, his tone still courteous.

"Of course!" Ana's reply is filled with eagerness, and I can't help but feel the weight of my own inadequacy in comparison.

As Ana's excited footsteps fade away from the kitchen, I flee to my room.

With trembling hands, I lock the door behind me, collapsing onto the bed as tears stream down my cheeks.

Why can't Ettore see me?

What have I done to deserve this treatment? And Cecilia's disdain... God, What have I done?

I glance at the miniature racing car intended as his birthday gift. Meanwhile, my phone rings. I am not accustomed to receiving calls, especially from unknown numbers, so I wipe away my tears and answer.

"Elisabeth Del Vecchio," I murmur, sniffing.

"Mrs. Del Vecchio, I am attorney Nathaniel Wilson. Call me Nate," the voice on the other end responds, his tone professional yet comforting.

"Attorney?" I furrow my brow, confusion evident in my voice.

"Yes, I am calling on behalf of Thomas Hawthorne," Nate replies calmly.

"I think I know what this is about. Thomas Hawthorne was my father, but I haven't seen him in years. I barely remember him, to be honest," I pause, a mixture of emotions swirling inside me. "So if you're calling for me to pay some debt of my father's, you're wasting your time."

"No, Mrs. Del Vecchio, I wouldn't be calling to collect a debt from your father. Unfortunately, your father passed away a year ago," Nate explains.

I inhale sharply, stunned by the news. A year ago? How did I not know about this?

I mean, my father abandoned me and my mother when I was very little. Since then, I have never heard from him again. All I knew about him was his first and last name. I didn't even have a photo of him.

But even so, I was surprised by the news of his death. My mom never talked about him, so I liked to think he was living a good life out there, with a new family.

"Why are you calling me then?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"Because your father left behind a billion-dollar fortune, Mrs. Del Vecchio, and you're the sole heir," Nate reveals, his words landing like a thunderbolt in my ears. "Hawthorne Company is without a president and urgently needs a leader."