He turned toward her, and in an instant, his expression softened—as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. As if I’d never mattered at all.
“You’re too forgiving,” he said to Lena. “That’s why she keeps stepping out of line.”
Lena made a small sad face. “She’s been weird all day. I tried to understand her, but… she really hates me. I can feel it.”
On the couch, Noel didn’t even pretend to care. His headphones dangled around his neck while music still played. He looked at me and smirked.
To him, this wasn’t conflict. It was entertainment.
A performance.
The maids stood frozen at the edge of the dining room, whispering like they were afraid to be noticed.
“She’s still holding that urn…”
“She didn’t even defend herself…”
“I heard she went to the ocean alone with it…”
My chest already felt like it was empty long before their words reached me.
Vincenzo’s eyes finally dropped to my arms—to the white urn I was holding like it was something alive.
“What is that?” he asked.
Before I could move, he grabbed it from me.
“No!” I shouted—but it came out too late.
He held it up, turning it over in his hands like it was nothing important. Something disposable.
“So you’ve been walking around the city with this?” he said coldly. “Crying to people for attention?” He shook it slightly, almost mocking. “What is this supposed to be? Another one of your pathetic attempts at sympathy?”
My stomach dropped.
My breath caught.
“It’s an urn,” he said with a scoff. “Who died this time? Your pride?”
Lena let out a quiet laugh behind him. Noel snorted like he was watching a joke unfold.
I stood there, blood still drying on my lip, heat burning through my face.
And finally, I spoke.
“Give it back.”
Vincenzo lifted it higher, taunting me with it.
“Why? Who is it even supposed to be? What is this act now—collecting ashes for attention?”
I didn’t blink.
“My son,” I said quietly. “Gabriel.”
Everything stopped.
Vincenzo’s hand froze.
Lena’s smile vanished.
Noel’s expression dropped.
Even the maids went silent.
For a moment—just one breath—no one moved.
Then it slipped.
Or maybe he let it.
“No—!” the sound tore out of me.
It hit the floor.
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
And then everything broke.
Ashes. Bone fragments. Ceramic shards.
My son—what was left of him—spread across the marble like he had never been held, never been loved, never even lived.