It was the little things that cracked me.
Not the betrayal.
Not the kiss.
Not the silence.
But the noise.
The sound of forks clinking in the dining room while I coughed blood into the bathroom sink.
The sound of the maids whispering behind doors I had just walked past.
The sound of Claudia Moretti's heels clicking along the marble and stopping just long enough to look at me like I was something pitiful on a rug.
But mostly, it was the sound of him laughing on the phone with someone else when I came down the stairs, ghost-pale and shaking, after throwing up what little I had eaten.
He didn't notice.
He never did.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror in the master bathroom.
The light was too harsh.
The robe was too soft.
And my reflection…
It didn't look like me.
I saw a woman I didn't recognize.
She wasn't fierce.
She wasn't beautiful.
She wasn't even sad anymore.
She just looked… tired.
I touched the hollow of my throat, tracing the delicate bone that used to hold jewelry he gave me. I hadn't worn anything he bought in weeks.
And still, the weight of him hung on me like chains I couldn't cut off.
I opened the drawer.
Pulled out the small silver box.
Inside…photos.
From the wedding.
From the day Claudia insisted on a portrait.
One where he wasn't even looking at me.
One where he smiled.
But not at me.
And one where I was staring straight at the camera, eyes wide, soft, terrified.
I didn't even know that girl anymore.
I dropped the photos to the floor.
Fell to my knees.
And finally…
I cried.
Not softly.
Not gracefully.
It was ugly.
Violent.
Silent at first, then so loud I had to shove my knuckles into my mouth just to keep from screaming.
My body shook.
My chest seized.
My breath came in hiccups and sobs and stuttered pain.
I crawled to the mirror and pressed my forehead against the glass.
"I hate you," I whispered. I didn't even know if I meant me or him.
"I hate what you've made me become."
I slapped the mirror once.
It didn't break.
Of course it didn't.
Even the glass was stronger than me.
I don't remember how long I sat there.
Maybe an hour.
Maybe two.
The tile beneath me went cold, and my robe stuck to my back with sweat. My tears had dried, leaving a tight salt crust along my cheeks.
I was still on the floor when the door opened.
Quiet.
Cautious.
I didn't look up.
But I knew it was him.
Alessandro stood in the doorway. I could feel the weight of his stare like heat against the back of my neck.
Still, I didn't speak.
He stepped closer.
Stopped behind me.
"You dropped these."
His voice was softer than usual. He knelt, slowly, placing the wedding photos gently on the counter beside the sink.
I didn't move.
"You shouldn't sit on the floor like this."
I laughed once. It cracked through the quiet like broken glass.
"Don't pretend you care now."
He didn't answer.
"I didn't realize mirrors could lie," I said hoarsely.
He crouched beside me, but not too close.
"I thought they told the truth."
I looked at him for the first time.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His collar was open. He looked tired…maybe more than me. But he wasn't broken. Not like me.
I lifted my hand and pointed at the glass.
"She's gone," I whispered. "The woman you married. She's not in there anymore."
His jaw clenched.
"And I think… I think you like it that way."
"No," he said quietly. "I don't."
I stared at him.
His eyes weren't cold tonight.
They were scared.
He reached out, fingers brushing my wrist.
I flinched so hard he froze.
"You're not allowed to touch me like that," I said, trembling.
He didn't try again.
"I don't hate you," he said suddenly.
"Then why do you treat me like something disposable?"
Silence.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. "Not like this. Not with someone who doesn't pretend."
I stared at him.
"You married someone real, Alessandro. Not a doll. Not a statue. And I've been bleeding in silence waiting for you to see me."
He looked down.
"I saw you tonight," he whispered. "And I didn't know what to do."
I laughed bitterly. "You could've tried not kissing someone else."
He didn't argue.
Didn't defend.
He just stood and left.
And for the first time in our marriage—
That silence felt like guilt.
Not indifference.
I didn't leave the bathroom for another hour.
I washed my face.
Twice.
Scrubbed it raw until there was nothing left of the girl who had cried on the floor like her soul had shattered. I didn't want her in the mirror anymore. I didn't want her anywhere near me.
Then I walked out, barefoot, in a robe too thin for the air.
The hallway lights were dim.
The house was silent.
I passed his door.
It was open.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging between them, staring at the floor like it owed him answers.
He didn't see me.
Or maybe he did and just didn't move.
I didn't say a word.
I walked past him. Into my room. Closed the door.
And this time…
I didn't lock it.
Because the door was no longer a wall.
It was a line.
And I dared him to cross it.
The next morning, I stood at the vanity brushing my hair when I noticed it.
A small gift box on the table beside my perfume tray.
No note.
No ribbon.
Just a black velvet box.
I opened it slowly.
Inside….an antique pendant.
Simple. Old. Gold with a sapphire set at the center.
My mother's birthstone.
Not Viola Vetrova.
My real mother.
Alessandro must've found it. Or searched for it. Or had someone dig it up from whatever record existed of me before this family took my name and scrubbed it clean.
I stared at the pendant for a long time.
Then closed the box.
Placed it back down.
I didn't wear it.
Not yet.
But it was the first time he gave me something that didn't feel like a command.
It felt like a confession.
A quiet one.
The kind only guilt dares to whisper.
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I said one sentence to the dark:
"Maybe he's starting to see me."
And in the silence that followed, I almost believed it.
But hope was a dangerous thing.
Especially when it still tasted like blood.