Chapter 4 - The Departure to Amalfi
The rain in Positano fell in light, misty veils that blurred the colorful cliffside houses into watercolor paintings of terracotta, rose, and gold.
In the master oceanfront suite of the Grand Hotel, the balcony doors were wide open, letting in the cool, salty breeze from the Tyrrhenian Sea. The ocean crashed rhythmically against the black rocks three hundred feet below.
Grant Whitmore stood on the terrace, wearing a white linen shirt and trousers, holding a glass of amber scotch that he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.
He was in the exact room.
He looked down at the handrail. Eight years ago, Hannah had stood right there, her dark hair blowing across her face, laughing as the rain soaked her summer dress. He had pulled her into his arms, kissed her until her lips tasted like salt water, and sworn that this room would always be their sanctuary.
Now, the room felt like a tomb.
Inside the suite, the bedroom door opened. Sloan Mercer stepped out wearing a silk cream wrap dress. She was twenty-eight, beautiful, sharp-edged, and the daughter of Arthur Mercer—the man who controlled three major shipping terminals in New York. Sloan was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted, and for the past six months, she had wanted Grant Whitmore.
"Grant," Sloan said smoothly, walking up behind him on the terrace and sliding her arms around his waist. "Why are you standing out here in the damp air? The driver will be here in an hour to take us to the yacht for dinner with the harbor authority."
Grant didn't move. He didn't lean into her touch. He stood rigid as iron.
"Take your hands off me, Sloan," Grant said quietly.
Sloan paused, her smile faltering slightly. She pulled her hands back, stepping around to look at his face. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Grant said, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the dark clouds met the sea.
Sloan let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Grant, what is wrong with you? Ever since we boarded the plane in New York, you've barely said ten words to me. You spent the entire eight-hour flight staring at your phone, checking for messages that clearly aren't coming."
"I shouldn't have brought you here," Grant said softly.
Sloan’s face hardened, her aristocratic features twisting into irritation. "We are here to secure the European distribution contract with my father's partners! This trip is worth forty million dollars to your logistics network! Don't act like this was some random romantic getaway!"
"We didn't need to book this hotel," Grant said, finally turning his gray eyes onto her. His voice was deathly quiet. "We didn't need to book this suite. You insisted on this specific hotel because you knew it was where I took my wife."
Sloan crossed her arms, tilting her head up defensively. "So what if I did? You've been married to Hannah for eight years, Grant. She's a sweet, boring homebody who spends her days baking bread and organizing your mother’s prescription bottles. She doesn't belong in your world anymore. You've outgrown her."
Grant stepped closer to her.
The air on the balcony instantly became suffocating. Sloan took an involuntary step back as she saw the dark, predatory rage behind Grant’s eyes—the look that made full-grown men back out of rooms in terror.
"Do not speak her name," Grant whispered, every syllable dropping like lead. "You are not fit to wipe the dust off her shoes."
Sloan gasped, her face flushing red. "How dare you! I am the reason your shipping permits passed through the city commission last month! My father—"
"Your father took fifteen percent of my distribution revenue to clear those permits," Grant interrupted coldly. "It was a business transaction. Nothing more."
"Then why am I in this room, Grant?!" Sloan shouted, her composure completely shattering. "Why did you bring me to Italy if you're going to treat me like a stranger?!"
Grant looked around the room. He saw the six candles sitting unlit on the marble mantle. He saw the mahogany bed. He saw the balcony doors where he had once held a laughing, sunburned girl who loved him when he was nothing more than a street enforcer with eighty dollars in his bank account.
The reality hit him like a physical blow to the chest.
He hadn't brought Sloan here to celebrate business. He had brought her here because his arrogance had convinced him that he could have everything—the empire, the status, the high-society mistress, and the loyal, quiet wife waiting at home to mend his wounds when he returned.
He had believed Hannah’s love was a permanent fixture, like the foundation of his house. He had believed he could abuse it, neglect it, and take it for granted, and it would still be there when he chose to look for it.
He pulls his phone from his pocket.
There were no text messages from Hannah. No missed calls. No angry voicemails.
He opened his home security app. The cameras showed the Westchester house was dark. The driveway was empty.
Grant’s stomach dropped into a cold, terrifying void.
He called his mother.
It rang four times before going straight to voicemail.
He called his sister, Rebecca.
It went straight to voicemail.
He called his father, Walter.
“The party you are trying to reach has blocked your number.”
Grant set his scotch glass down on the stone railing. His hands were shaking.
"Pack your bags, Sloan," Grant said, turning toward the interior of the suite.
May you like
Sloan stared at him in utter disbelief. "What?! The dinner with the harbor authority is in two hours!"
"Then you can go alone," Grant said, walking into the bedroom and pulling his leather travel bag onto the bed. "I'm going home."
