The Divorce Changed EverythingChapter 1
I never asked for diamonds. Never wished for bouquets. I wanted only one thing. One promise. One single, damn promise.
A cruise.
Marcello had whispered it once, back when his soul still felt alive. “One day,” he murmured into my hair, “when we’re rich… just the two of us, we’ll sail the world together.”
That was before the empire, before the money, before I became his wife in title but his servant in practice.
Now it was my forty-eighth birthday. No greetings. No balloons. No cake. No flickering candles. Yet, somehow, I had allowed myself the tiniest hope that maybe—just maybe—today could be different.
The twins’ laughter echoed behind me, my grandchildren unbothered by any sense of respect.
“Ma, you look like some skeleton in a dusty gown,” Enzo teased, smirking.
“Yeah, smells like old mop water mixed with cat piss,” Nico added, wrinkling his nose.
And Antonio, leaning against the fridge, hollered over their laughter: “Hey, Ma! Wash my clothes, alright? My wife’s busy. And make sure you bleach the whites this time, unless you want another disaster!”
I swallowed, trying to keep the rising heat from my chest from spilling into my voice. “I’m not your maid.”
“What was that?” he barked.
“I said I’m not—”
He slammed a half-empty soda can onto the floor. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Because you sure as hell aren’t contributing! You don’t earn a dime.”
My blood boiled. “I raised you. Fed you. Stayed awake when you burned with fevers. I’ve worked since before you were even born.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve worked on smelling better,” one of the twins shot back.
“Yeah,” Nico laughed, “it’s horrifying seeing you. People at school said you scare them, like some extra from The Walking Dead.”
Their laughter bounced around the kitchen. Marcello didn’t even look at me. He returned to polishing his pistol on the mantel, examining it as though it mattered more than I ever did.
“We’ve got money, Bianca,” he muttered. “But I’m not wasting it on useless help. You’re here. You’ve got two hands. Why hire a maid when you’re the so-called woman of the house?”
“The woman of the house.” His title for me. Yet I had nothing—no car, no credit card, no independence. Every cent I needed, I had to beg for. And asking for more? He demanded receipts. Line by line. Penny by penny.