Who's the Real Mrs. Whitfield?

My husband, Julian Whitfield, tells me he's flying to Italy for a month-long business trip.

I check the calendar. His birthday falls right in the middle of it. A whole month, alone, in a country where he doesn't know a soul outside of work.

I mention it to my mother-in-law, Margaux, and before I've even finished the sentence she's already pulling up flights.

Before we board, I call my brother Dante. He lives in Italy. My only family left. For years I've told the Whitfields he's some small-time businessman. They have no idea what he actually is.

"Got it," he says, distracted, when I give him the hotel name. "I've got a few things to handle first. I'll find you once I'm done."

We land before Julian even knows we're there. Margaux and I decide to kill time at the hotel restaurant, grab a meal, see how he's running the place.

Then the check comes.

Eighteen thousand euros. For one bottle of wine. Not counting the string of other charges stacked underneath it.

I ask for the manager.

A woman comes out of the kitchen in heels, chin already up before she's even reached the table.

"Can I help you? If you can't cover the bill, it's all right there on the menu."

My own restaurant. When did it turn into this?

"I'd like to speak to the owner. Myself."

She smiles, slow. "The owner happens to be my husband."

Since when did my husband become someone else's? Nobody told me.

...

"This bill doesn't add up," I say, keeping my voice flat. "I don't believe the real owner signed off on this. Does he even know what's happening in his own restaurant right now?"

Selene doesn't blink. Arms crossed, looking at me like something she'd scrape off a shoe.

"Of course he knows." Her voice climbs, pitched for the room. "Funny how it's always the ones who order the most who suddenly can't pay."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Louder now, playing to an audience. "Best table, best service, priciest dishes on the menu, and then the bill shows up and suddenly there's a problem."

Margaux's fingers dig into my arm. Whispers start up around the room.

Selene flips her hair back, enjoying this way too much. "Every line's accurate. Market-price seafood. Imported wine. Private room fee. All itemized. I don't know what you two are trying to pull, but it won't fly here."

"Get the owner," I say. "Now. Because once he sees how you talk to customers, I doubt you'll have a job by tonight."

Something flickers in her eyes. Just for a second.

Then she scoffs. "So desperate to get him out here. What, you think you'll bat your lashes and I'll just drop it?"

"I know exactly who owns this place." My stomach's turning. "And his wife isn't you."

Her face goes dark. She closes the distance fast. "Who do you think you are? Broke little nobody, running your mouth about things you don't understand."

A perfume hits me, familiar, though I can't place it, right before her hand cracks across my face.

Heat blooms across my cheek. My ears ring.

Margaux's on her feet before I've even recovered, slapping her right back. "Touch her again and see what happens."

Selene's hand flies to her own cheek. She stares at the old woman in front of her like she can't believe she got hit back.

Then she spins toward the corner, snapping at the four guards standing there.

"You'll regret this. Get over here. These two need to learn what happens when they try to scam my restaurant."