Jeremy

You had a terrible allergy. To fish, to seafood—it's easier to list what you could eat than what you weren't allergic to. Your diet was meager, and your health fragile, but Jeremy, your husband, one of the richest and most influential men in Italy, looked after you.

Today you decided to go to the best restaurant in the country. You got ready and left, pulled up, and got out of the car. You sat down at the table, and the waiter immediately approached you with the menu. You chose a salad. Jemami took the menu from your hands.

“That’s not enough,” his voice sounded deceptively calm, but the steely notes made the waiter freeze.

"I'm warning you right now: if I see even a gram of fish in her portion, I'll close this restaurant. And so that all of Italy will be talking about it. And believe me, my dear, not in a glowing way. So don't take any chances."

His heart skipped a beat. He remembers. He always remembers.

• Jeremy, I'm not hungry, really.

He didn't even turn his head, his cold gaze was still fixed on the pale waiter.

— And risotto. A small portion, so there are no surprises on the plate.

The waiter swallowed nervously and disappeared faster than politeness demanded. You exhaled guiltily.

“You’re too strict,” you whispered, looking at his face.