No kingdom, no crown, no freedom. I already had enough. Maybe walking away from this family—leaving everything behind—was the only birthday gift I could truly give myself.
The following morning…
I first heard about the dinner from Enzo—he practically shoved the news out between mouthfuls of potato chips.
“Vivienne booked the entire top floor of the Luciana Hotel! Fancy, huh? Dad says it’s just for us. A huge celebration.”
I froze mid-mop. “Us?”
Nico answered before I could speak. “You’re not invited, Ma. Grandpa said… you’re not up for it. I mean, look at you.”
Not up for it. As if I were frail, or ill, or a figure to be pitied.
By sunset, the house had emptied. Marcello was freshly shaved, wearing the cologne reserved for boardroom meetings and funerals, standing tall in his navy suit as he straightened Enzo’s and Nico’s collars like a proud patriarch. Antonio was dressed in his finest suit, looking the part of an heir.
“Remember,” Marcello said to them, “Vivienne is doing this because she loves us. She’s family.”
“We know, Grandpa. That’s why we love Vivienne more than Grandma Bianca,” the boys chorused.
Then… nothing. No goodbye, no ‘we’ll bring you something.’ Just the front door clicking shut, echoing like a coffin lid.
The silence afterward was brutal. A hollow that screamed louder than any insult ever could.
I stood in the hallway, slippers on, clutching a basket of unfolded laundry. My stomach growled. I hadn’t cooked for anyone. Why would I?
Out of spite, I turned on the TV. And there they were.
A live broadcast from the Luciana Hotel. Cameras sweeping over crystal chandeliers, the soft music of violins floating across the screen. There was Vivienne, draped in a fur shawl, Marcello by her side. My son and his wife smiled like seasoned politicians. Enzo and Nico, tiny tuxedos and soda cups in hand, looked like miniature guests of honor.
The reporter said: “A private Moroccan gathering—Vivienne’s grand homecoming. The family behind one of the nation’s largest shipping fortunes.”
I wasn’t there. Not in the frame. Not in the whispers. Not in the applause.
They toasted champagne. I sipped stale coffee.
Then the camera caught it—a single, unbearable moment. Vivienne leaned toward Marcello, whispered something. They laughed. My son laughed too. I didn’t hear the words, but I knew it was about me.
I felt it in my teeth.
---