The gala pictures came out the next day.
Front page.
Alessandro in a black suit.
Giulia in red.
Their kiss caught in perfect lighting, shadows soft, angle flattering.
I was in the background of one photo, holding a glass of wine.
My face blurred. Cropped. Unimportant.
By noon, I had become a punchline.
Again.
Not to the press…no, they had already moved on to the next scandal.
But to him.
And his circle.
I stood on the balcony of the second-floor drawing room, trying to sip coffee with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
I didn't hear Matteo Varone enter.
He walked in like he owned the place, which, in many ways, he probably felt he did. He was Alessandro's oldest friend, another surgeon, another heir to another powerful name.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said with a slow smile.
I didn't return it. "Dr. Varone."
He looked me up and down. "You look… fragile."
I sipped my coffee. "You look like you're here to insult me."
"Why would I insult you? You've already done the hard part…you've embarrassed yourself publicly and survived it. That takes skill."
I looked at him over the rim of my mug. "Is there something you want?"
He laughed. "Just passing through. Alessandro's out. Surgery."
"Then you've passed through. Feel free to keep walking."
He didn't.
Instead, he stepped closer.
Too close.
"You know, we all wondered how long it would take for you to fall apart," he murmured. "You married a man who doesn't want you, into a family that only tolerates you, with a face that's…well, soft enough to pity."
My jaw tightened.
"I'm not in the mood."
"I don't think you're ever in the mood, Anastasia. Which is probably why he's finding it elsewhere."
He smirked.
And then said it…
The sentence that would replay in my mind for weeks:
"You must be really desperate for money if you can still sleep in this house after what he did to you."
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared.
Then set the mug down.
And slowly stepped toward him.
"You think this is about money?"
He shrugged. "Isn't it always?"
"No. This is about survival."
"Same thing."
I smiled.
Then slapped him.
Hard.
His head turned with the force.
He laughed again.
"I can see why he married you," he said, rubbing his jaw. "You're not boring."
Then he walked out.
And I stood there.
Still shaking.
Still burning.
Still remembering every word.
The moment he was gone, I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles went white.
I wanted to scream.
Not at Matteo.
At Alessandro.
Because I knew..deep down…I wasn't mad at the snake who bit me.
I was mad at the man who let the serpent walk freely in his house.
The man who gave him the space.
The permission.
The silence.
And later, when Alessandro returned, I waited for him at the landing.
He looked exhausted.
Tie crooked, eyes shadowed.
He didn't even make it up the first step before I spoke.
"Your friend came by."
He stopped.
Slowly looked up.
"Matteo?"
I nodded.
He exhaled. "What did he say?"
"You know what he said."
Alessandro was quiet for a beat. "I told him to drop off some files. I didn't know he'd find you."
"So you didn't warn him I was human?"
"Anastasia…"
"He called me desperate."
His jaw twitched.
I stepped down one stair. "He said I must be really hungry for money to stay with someone like you."
Silence.
"He said I was pitiful. Soft. Tolerated."
Alessandro looked away.
That hurt worse than the words.
I waited.
One second.
Two.
Still nothing.
"You're not going to say anything?" I asked, voice steady.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to defend me."
"To him?"
"To the world."
Another silence.
Then he said, "You've made it very clear you don't want me defending you."
My voice cracked. "I want you to stop letting them rip me apart."
He looked up then.
And what I saw in his eyes?
It wasn't anger.
It was guilt.
Frustration.
Shame.
But none of it was enough.
Because guilt without change is nothing more than ego.
He stepped forward, reached for me.
I stepped back.
"No," I said softly. "You don't get to touch me after letting someone undress me with words in the house I'm dying in."
His shoulders stiffened.
"Don't say that," he said.
"Why? It's true, isn't it?"
He didn't reply.
I turned and walked upstairs, my voice low and flat.
"You let them humiliate me, Alessandro. And worse…you agreed with them by saying nothing."
I slammed the bedroom door behind me.
Not hard enough to crack the wood…but enough to tell him I meant every word I'd said.
He didn't follow.
Of course not.
He never followed.
The walls of that room felt tighter than usual. Like even the house was sick of this marriage…of me…of him. I paced the floor, barefoot, still in the dress from hours ago, still wearing his silence like a noose.
When I finally stopped, I grabbed the journal from my drawer and opened to a clean page.
I didn't write poetry.
I wrote truths.
"Today, his friend called me desperate.
Today, my husband stayed silent.
Today, I realized I'm not the wife of a man.
I'm the property of an empire,
and even the servants know it."
I put the pen down.
Walked into the bathroom.
And stared at my face in the mirror until I couldn't recognize it anymore.
Not the woman who walked down the aisle.
Not the girl who used to wait for someone to ask if she was okay.
Just eyes.
Tired.
Dark.
Vengeful.
I opened the cabinet and counted the pill bottles again.
Five.
I didn't cry.
I just whispered to the glass:
"You'll remember me when I'm gone."
Then I laughed once, bitter and quiet.
"No," I said. "You'll remember me when I start fighting back."
The next morning, Alessandro's breakfast sat untouched.
I didn't join him.
I didn't speak.
He found me in the library two hours later, curled on the chaise with a book I wasn't reading.
He stood there a while.
Watching me.
"You hit him?" he asked finally.
I looked up. "I did."
A pause.
"He deserved it."
Another pause.
"Good," he said.
He turned to leave.
Stopped at the door.
And said, "You're not desperate."
I didn't reply.
"You're just… surviving."
I turned a page. "And what are you?"
His voice was barely audible.
"Worse."
Then he walked away.
And for the first time in weeks…
I believed him.