I knew it—I pushed her too hard and too fast.

How is she supposed to be over Ryan in a matter of days? She was engaged to him for fuck’s sake.

I run my hands through my hair, refraining from pulling any of it out, and scroll through my phone once again. Eagerly awaiting a phone call, a text, anything…I need to know she’s okay, that’s all.

The note says ten, she’ll be here at ten. Where the fuck is she?

It’s fucking way past ten. It’s one thing that she left the hotel alone, without saying anything, but not show up at all? That’s rude and inconsiderate.

I know she’s better than that. Luciano is proof. Taking care of a wounded pigeon is one of the nicest, most considerate things I’ve ever seen anyone do.

How could she be capable of wounding someone on purpose? It doesn’t make sense.

I call her…again. No answer. I text her: Where are you? You’re worrying me.

Waiting kills me. I’m already impatient, but when it comes to the well-being and safety of someone I care deeply for and love, I have none.

I’m standing in the lobby, watching people walk in and out of the front doors.

Fury and annoyance fuel me as I watch the strangers talking amongst themselves, completely oblivious to my impending anxiety attack. The time is crawling by—one-minute feels like an eternity.

Looking at my phone again, I do the exact same thing as last time—check my texts, email, and phone log. Nothing from Nicole.

I pace the lobby, forcing people out of my way.

I need room and space, so I can figure out what to do.

Calling her for the tenth time now, I’m met with the multiple rings and her voicemail.

“You’ve reached Nicole. Leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible…”

Hah, well that’s a fucking lie. I roll my eyes and press end.

I’ll give it another five minutes. She might’ve gotten distracted by one of the shops on the way back. Or perhaps, she made a coffee run.

Or worst of all, she’s dead in a ditch somewhere, her body mangled and left to decay.

No, don’t go there. It’s most likely innocent.

I hope.

The couples walking hand in hand through the lobby piss me off. Of course, you’re in love, happily enjoying your time in romantic Rome.

I can’t even find my wife—she left me with no reason.

I roll my eyes when one of the beautiful couples kisses passionately as the concierge hands them keys to their room. We were like that a day ago—what went wrong?

Honestly, I’m happy Ryan left her, but why did he have to be such an asshole?

Imparting her with such terrible memories that’ll leave her with abandonment and trust issues. The type of issues that are the hardest to fix and cure. I hope this isn’t her leaving me because asshole Ryan fucked up.

I shouldn’t be punished for his mistake. It’s been too fucking long.

I stroll through my phone log once again, and I pass Allison’s name.

Allison! I completely forgot about her.

She has to know where Nicole is; she’s her fucking best friend after all.

I dial her number, tapping my foot impatiently as it rings.

She picks up on the fourth ring, finally.

“Um, hello?”

“Hey Allison, It’s Dante. Have you heard from Nicole?” I ask, wasting no time.

“Dante? Remind me again?” She chuckles.

I’m not sure if she’s serious or not, but I’m not in the mood for fucking around. She knows who I am. She would’ve been horizontal on my bed the first night if it wasn’t for her distractingly gorgeous best friend, whom I’m now married to.

“Your best friend’s fucking husband—Dante. That’s who.”

“Jeez, I’m just joking. Calm down. Now, what do you want?”

This woman is incorrigible. I’ve been on the phone with her for ten seconds, and I already want to hang up.

“Have you heard from Nicole?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Well, she left the hotel this morning and didn’t tell me where she was going. She said she’d be back here by ten, and there’s still no sight of her,” I rattle off the information as quickly as possible.

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses. It’s still somewhere between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning, not the afternoon. Have you thought maybe the line at the coffee shop is long, or she’s shopping for a new outfit? You know, Nicole does like to do that stuff.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’m not stupid. I’m just worried. She shouldn’t be alone,” my voice is filled with worry.

“Nicole is a big girl, she can take care of herself. She has had a crazy few days, maybe she needs to have some time for herself. Let her have that,” she explains in a condescending tone.

“Still, it’s unlike her. I told her not to go out alone, and then she just does it,” I respond stifling my anger.

“That’s why. She needs to do what she wants, without someone telling her what to do or how to do it.”

“You’re not making me feel any better, Allison. Can you help me or not?” I ask, my rage now bubbling at the surface.

My response is clipped, short, and stern. She might know her best friend, but she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what we have or had.

She left her as soon as she could. She didn’t even get to know us as a couple. And if anything, Allison left her with a stranger.

“Dante, I have to go. I don’t understand why you’re so worried. She’ll come back when she wants. Sorry, I don’t have any other information. Ciao!”

And then she hangs up.

What the fuck? That was a waste of five minutes. Other than infuriating me with her condescending and ridiculous assumptions—even though there might be some truth in them—she didn’t help at all.

So much for the best friend. I knew she wasn’t worth my time.

I examine the lobby, hoping to see a glimpse of her—her purse, her brown hair, her voice, laughter…anything. I might’ve been distracted by the phone call and missed her walking in. Doubtful, but possible.

No sight of her. I call her again. Nothing.

Check all the usual apps on my phone and I’m left empty handed. Still, no sign.

It’s getting nearer to eleven, and I can’t wait any longer.

Something’s not right, I can feel it. She would be here right now or would’ve at least texted me to let me know she was running late. Like any normal, not-in-danger person.

Putting my phone in my back pocket, I dart out the front door, pushing through the mingling couples. The crowds of people have started to form in the streets.

I maneuver through and around them, trying my best to avoid crashing into the people who abruptly stop to take pictures of whatever church they’re aweing over.

I nearly run over an old woman standing in the middle of the street doing just that.

“Watch where you’re walking, mister,” she screams after me.

I give her an ‘I’m sorry’ look, then realize I should use this as an opportunity.

“Apologies ma’am, but have you seen this woman?”

I show her a picture of Nicole and me, one we took last night as we lied in bed together, reveling in each other’s presence.

She looks at it, squints her eyes, and in a single word breaks my heart, “No.”

“Well, thanks,” I respond gravely.

Fuck. Dead end number two.

My pace quickens as my body tenses and my anxiety builds. I’ve only walked a few blocks, but I’m feeling defeated at every turn. I remain diligently aware of my surroundings, knowing that she could be anywhere in these crowds—hidden behind large men and women, blocked by random statues or light fixtures.

I go into all the coffee and shops I pass, asking everyone in there if they’ve seen my wife. I’m praying to find her fawning over a new purse, sipping a cappuccino, or perhaps someone who has seen her and can point me in her direction.

I’m digging for any information, any glimmer of hope and sign of life.

Frustrated, I stop walking. I stand looking around me, silently praying.

A sparkle catches my eye across the street from me.

Intrigued, I head towards it.

My nerves are standing at attention. My heart sinks when I reach it. It’s her purse.

The purse I gave her as a wedding present—a white, Michael Kors bag with gold trim.

The gold sparkles in the sun. And it’s in the fucking trash.

I reach for it, opening and searching every inch of it, desperate to find something, anything that leads me to her.

Nothing. It’s completely empty.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Standing there with her lifeless, ransacked purse in my hands, my insides twist and tighten in turmoil, and the realization that my worst fear is a reality hits me.

Is she still alive?