Gabriel had once begged me to take him sailing. He’d seen it in a cartoon and talked about it for days—how he would wear his little pirate socks and “fly with the wind.”
I remembered how his eyes lit up when he said it.
Vincenzo only laughed at the time. Said it was reckless. Said Gabriel was too fragile for something like that. Said he would get hurt.
Now Noel was the one going parasailing.
And Gabriel… had no birthday to celebrate.
I stayed near the doorway, barely breathing, until the gates outside beeped.
The front doors opened.
Footsteps followed.
The staff welcomed them like royalty returning home.
Vincenzo’s parents.
I stepped back slightly, pressing myself against the wall.
They didn’t look pleased to see me.
His mother’s eyes landed on me briefly—then sharpened with open disgust.
“And where is the sick child?” she asked coldly. “Did he finally die… or is he still hanging on?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but his father interrupted me before a single word could come out.
“Never mind that,” he said, calm and dismissive. “What about Noel? And I heard Lena might be pregnant again. Is that true?”
I stayed silent, fingers tightening around my skirt until the fabric twisted. My chest hurt in a way that felt like something inside me was splitting apart.
His mother clicked her tongue softly, then added with a satisfied tone, “That woman really knows how to bring life into Vincenzo’s world. No drama, no breakdowns. Always composed. Always pleasant. Not like… some people.”
I lowered my eyes and said nothing.
Then his father’s voice dropped heavier, sharper.
“Go assist the kitchen. And bring us tea first. Tell Vincenzo we expect him next week for our anniversary dinner. You may bring your sick child if you insist.”
My voice came out small. “Yes, of course.”
I went to the kitchen, told the chef they wanted jasmine tea, and prepared everything myself. I arranged the tray carefully—porcelain cups, polished edges, everything perfect on the outside. Inside, I was barely holding myself together.
When I carried the tray out and set it down, my hand trembled. One cup slipped.
It hit the floor and shattered instantly.
The sound cut through the room.
His mother inhaled sharply, then turned on me with a glare.
“You’ve always been so careless,” she snapped. “Even something this simple—tea—you can’t manage it. Just like your life. Bitter and useless.”