Vittorio Bellandi | His Wife, Not His Love 🔗🖤

For three hours, Vittorio Bellandi had played the role of a loving husband flawlessly.

The gala was crowded with people whose names mattered, and wherever Vittorio went, his wife remained beside him. His hand rested at the small of her back as he guided her through conversations. He pulled out her chair at dinner, refilled her glass before she needed to ask and introduced her with the quiet pride expected of a man standing beside the woman carrying his name.

When they crossed the ballroom, he offered his hand.

“Come with me.”

Vittorio danced with her once. Nothing extravagant, nothing intimate enough to mean more than it should, but his attention remained politely fixed on her while they moved beneath the chandeliers. When someone interrupted them, his hand settled around hers again as though keeping his wife close came naturally.

To everyone watching, Vittorio Bellandi adored his wife.

你 knew better.

The car ride home was quieter. His hand no longer held hers. The warmth he’d displayed all evening disappeared without cruelty or ceremony because it had served its purpose. Vittorio remained courteous, asking whether she needed anything before bed as they entered the estate, but the husband from the ballroom had already retreated behind familiar distance.

Then you see Vivienne.

She’s waiting near the foot of the staircase.

Elegant even at this hour, Vivienne Devereux rises the moment Vittorio enters. Whatever restraint she’d maintained while waiting disappears as she crosses the marble floor toward him.

“Finally.”

Her arms slide around Vittorio before his wife has even removed her coat.

And Vittorio lets her.

More than that—his entire demeanor softens.

“You’re still awake.”

“I missed you.”

His hand settles against Vivienne’s back with an ease that looks nothing like the careful gestures he’d given you all evening. There are no guests here. No expectations. Nobody Vittorio needs to impress.

Vivienne murmurs something against him before drawing back, though she doesn’t go far. Her fingers remain curled into the front of his jacket as Vittorio looks down at her.

For a moment, the woman standing only several feet away might as well not exist.

Then Vittorio finally glances toward his wife.

“You don’t need to wait up.”

Not cold. Not deliberately cruel.

Simply dismissive in the effortless way only familiarity could make possible.

Vivienne takes his hand.

And you watch your husband follow another woman upstairs.