Jane Porter - Marco's Pride

For the first few months she was alone in the house, she tried to keep up the pretense that she and Marco were fine. She tried to keep it together for the girls, too. But theory and reality are two different things.

In the end, she couldn’t do it. After their volatile separation, she couldn’t manage to be in the same room with Marco and act casual. She couldn’t make polite conversation at one end of the salon while he stood at the other. She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.

He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.

She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.

It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.

The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.

And maybe that’s what everyone knew.

She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.

Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.

“You’re settling in then?”

Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”

“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”

So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.

“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”

She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”

“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”

She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.

“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”

Payton tensed, looked away. Why had she even bothered to offer? He’d never understood that she liked to contribute. Never realized it made her feel good to contribute.

“That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” Marco sighed heavily. “I’m tired. It’s been a difficult month.”

For both of them then. “I understand. The IRS has had a field day with my income tax. I’ve spent hours poring over my financial statements, making sure all of my expenses are accounted for.”

His expression eased. He actually looked sympathetic. “But that’s behind you now?”

“Fortunately.”

Looking at him, seeing him stand there and smile at her, she felt a rush of bittersweet memory. She’d loved Marco so much.

He’d been her world. Her stars. Her sky. He had taken her ordinary life and made it big, made her feel, made her love.

And then he’d brought it all down on her…the love, the want, the need…he’d let the world crash down, her dreams and heart breaking. He’d let it shatter and he hadn’t felt a damn thing. God help her, but it’d been the worst pain, the worst loss imaginable. She’d cried for months, cried in the shower, cried in her pillow, cried in the car on her way to the grocery store.

How to get over someone? How to stop wanting someone? How to stop needing someone?

The only way she’d finally survived the loss was to kill the love. She’d been forced to take all that need and want and passion and smother it.

No more tenderness.

No more desire.

No more passion. Nothing but anger. Fierce, sharp unrelenting anger. He’d hurt her so badly she’d decided never to forgive him, never to forget him, never have contact again.

Of course it didn’t work out like that. The biopsy had forced Payton to confront not just her own mortality, but her pride.

“Fortunately,” she repeated softly, swallowing hard and pushing a loose tendril from her forehead. “And I hope I don’t have to deal with the tax man again for quite some time.”

He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have someone on a plane to New York trying to track down Gia’s blanket.”

“Thank you. It’d be a miracle if you find it, but it’d be a welcome miracle.”

His mouth tightened. “You don’t think I care about them, Payton, but you’re wrong. I love them. They’ve always been important to me.”

“Yet you haven’t visited very often.”

“You were the one that moved to America.”

He couldn’t reduce all their problems to the move. “It was the only thing I could do.”

“That’s absurd. I wanted you here. I knew it’d be difficult to see the girls once you were half way round the world and I was right.”

“You have business in the United States. You didn’t make many attempts to see us.” She pressed her nails into her hands, her voice taking on an edge. “I know for a fact you were in the Bay Area a number of times and yet you never came by the house.”

His voice sharpened, too. “I tried. Every time I phoned you had an excuse. You were heading out of town, or one of the girls was sick.”

“The time we were heading out of town, I was going to attend a funeral.” Her mother’s funeral. After a five-year battle with cancer her mother had finally lost the fight and Payton had been nearly incoherent with grief. “And children do get sick!”

“I sent gifts,” he defended tersely, but Marco knew it was a lame defense. He had stayed away. Not because he wanted to, but because visiting Payton and the girls hurt more than it helped. He felt like hell after each visit. Felt like a failure.

“A stuffed bear isn’t quite the same thing as a father.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted, furious that she was right and that he’d lost control. God damn it, he hated that Payton could do this to him, hated that she made him feel like an absolute lunatic. “Don’t you think I struggle every day with the knowledge that my children are being raised halfway around the world and they view me as nothing more than a stranger?”

She took a step toward him. “You’re right. They do think of you as a stranger. And why shouldn’t they? You haven’t even tried to be part of their lives. And then last month, it was their birthday. I sent you an invitation. Why didn’t you come?”