The following three days were an exercise in psychological warfare where I was the only soldier on the field. To Alessandro, I was the picture of maternal serenity. I spent my hours in the nursery, organizing tiny, lace-trimmed undershirts and soft cashmere booties. I allowed him to read to me in the evenings, my head resting on his shoulder while he traced the lineage of the Moretti name through leather-bound chronicles. I was the perfect, docile creature he had always dreamed of—a woman who ...