The room erupted in laughter. Even Marcello. Even my son. Chiara wiped tears from her eyes, giggling.
Vivienne sipped her coffee, all cheer and venom. “Don’t worry, Bianca. I’ll leave some of my old dresses in your closet. A little tight on me now, but I think you’ll fit.”
Marcello chuckled, not even looking my way. “You can dress a corpse in Versace—it’s still a corpse. Still smells like disappointment.”
Chiara screamed in laughter. The twins clapped like it was a roast battle.
And me? I washed their dirty dishes, one by one. Staring out at the neighbor’s lemon tree, blooming.
They think this is the end. They haven’t seen what I look like when I stop begging to belong.
---
That night, when the house quieted, the laughter gone, wine drained, I crept into the living room.
There it was again. The portrait. Massive, hung center stage in the sala like a crown jewel. Antonio had staged it with dramatic flair, right above the console table. Impossible to miss. Guests would pause, admire, whisper, “What a happy family.”
A lie. All of it.
I didn’t notice Marcello enter until he was behind me.
“Jealous again?” His voice roughened with boredom. “You stare at it like it’ll cry for you.”
I didn’t answer. There was no point.
He scoffed. “Damn, Bianca. If I could turn back time, I’d leave you in the province. Marry Vivienne from the start. She’s better in every way—classy, smart, knows business, knows when to shut up.”
I turned away, silent.
Then he kicked me.
Right in the knee. I crumpled, falling with a thud I didn’t even gasp at. Cold floor, familiar, merciless.
Tears came unbidden. Not from pain. From hearing him walk away like I didn’t exist.
“Enough drama,” he muttered. “You’re too old for this shit.”
His phone rang.
I could still hear my own ragged breaths as he answered. His tone melted. “Hey, baby,” he said, warm, giddy. “Mmm, missed you already.”
I wiped my face with the edge of my sleeve.
His voice dropped, playful, excited. “Yeah, yeah, I’m packing. Can’t wait to see you in that bikini. This cruise’s gonna be insane. You and me. Open sea.”
I didn’t chase after Marcello.
He walked off, laughing with Vivienne like a schoolboy at prom, whispering into his phone about bikinis and champagne as though I weren’t sprawled on the floor, knees aching, soul half-dissolved.