Chapter 178 Enrico

Chapter 178 Enrico
Enrico

I brought it up on a Wednesday night, looking back, that was either perfect timing or a disaster, depending on how you want to see it.

Isla was at her desk, still awake at eleven. Foundation grant applications drowned every surface; her notebook was open to a page crammed full of notes; she was eating almonds from a mostly empty bag. I stood in the doorway, watching her work.

“Come to bed,” I said.

“One more hour,” she answered, not looking away from her notes.

“You said that two hours ago.”

“I meant it both times.”

I crossed the room and sat in the old chair across from her, the one that had seen more than one late-night confession between us. She had that exhausted look, like someone running entirely on willpower, determined not to admit it.

“When’s the last time you slept all night?” I asked.

“Define all night.”

“Seven hours.”

She thought about it longer than it deserved. “Recently.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer I have.” She scribbled something down and popped another almond. “I’m fine, Enrico. The Philadelphia launch pulled in three times what we expected in week one. I need to check capacity projections and update funding before the board call Friday.”

“The board call is Friday,” I said. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Preparation takes time.”

I eyed the almond bag. “How many handfuls of those have you had?”

“They’re healthy.”

“How many.”

She glanced at the bag and did some silent math. “A contextually appropriate amount.”

“You’ve had at least four.”

“I’m processing.”

I reached across and took the almonds. She gave me a look, then stared at the empty spot.

“That was unnecessary.”

“We need a weekend away,” I said. “Just us. Cabin upstate. No staff. No estate logistics. No Marco showing up before sunrise with operational updates.”

She studied me for a full five seconds, which meant she was actually considering it.

“Where upstate?”

“Vermont. By a lake. Fireplace. That’s about it.”

She started to say something, then stopped. “That actually sounds perfect.” She glanced back at her desk. “But I have fourteen things to finish before Friday.”

“They’ll still be here on Monday.”

“Some are time-sensitive.”

“None are more urgent than the fact that it’s eleven, you’ve eaten half a bag of almonds, and you can’t remember when you last got seven hours of sleep.”

She opened her mouth.

“And ‘recently’ is not a time.”

She closed it.

The desk sat between us piled high with proof of how much she cared, and how determined she was to keep going even when she shouldn’t. I tried to keep my face neutral because I could see she was weighing her options and she always looked so young when she did.

“Friday morning,” she said finally.

“Friday morning,” I agreed.

“I need Thursday to finish…”

“Take Thursday. I’ll handle everything here.”

She looked at my prize, a bag of stolen almonds. “Can I have those back?”

“No.”

“I’m really hungry.”

“I’ll make you real food.” I stood. “After you eat, come to bed. The applications will keep till Thursday.”

She looked at me for a second, then began closing folders with a kind of efficiency that always signaled her decision was final, at least until she changed her mind five minutes later.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m bringing my laptop to the cabin.”

“Bring it. It won’t have signal.”

She shot me a look. “You booked a place with no service?”

“I had the signal blocked when I bought the property.”

“You own a signal-blocked cabin in Vermont?”

“I own a secure remote property in Vermont. Blocking the signal is a feature.”

She stared at me, then her expression shifted into something halfway between finding it funny and being irritated at herself for laughing.

“Of course you do.”

Thursday came and went. Isla finished eleven of her fourteen “urgent” tasks. The last three got detailed notes for her coordinator, proof, if she’d admit it, that they weren’t quite as vital as she’d claimed.

Friday morning, I loaded our bags into the car. She came downstairs with a third—mostly stuffed with books, from the look of it. I decided not to say anything.

I was closing the trunk when Marco appeared on the steps, hands shoved deep in his jacket. He wore the unmistakable look of someone with news and barely suppressed excitement.

“Cabin weekend,” he said. “Great idea.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Sofia was saying she’d love to get out of the city, too,” he went on. “Vermont’s beautiful. Two bedrooms, right?”

I stared at him.

He stared right back, calm and unmovable.

“Marco,” I said.

“I’m your family. Families do cabin weekends. It’s a tradition.”

“We have literally never done this before.”

“First time for everything.” He turned to go back inside. “Sofia will meet us there. She’s driving herself.”

I stood there, November cold biting in. The front door closed behind him.

Then, from the passenger window, I heard it, a barely stifled sound.

I turned. Isla had her phone up, camera squarely on me.

“Don’t,” I said.

The camera shutter was soft, but still there.

“That’s going in the archive,” she said.

“What archive?”

“The one with your moments of profound suffering.”

“I’m not suffering.”

“You look like a man who just discovered his romantic cabin weekend is now a group retreat.”

“I look perfectly normal.”

She studied the photo. “Actually, you look like when someone tells you the east camera’s drifting again.” She laughed and I wanted to join in too but I guess I’m actually mad about Marco’s interruption.

I got in the car.