From Vows to Vows Again

Married three years. Stood up three years.

Today was the last time I bothered showing up. Surprise—he bailed again.

Still clinging to hope like a total idiot, I called. One last shot.

"A-Aurora, I'm busy. Just wait," he muttered.

And then her voice cut in. All breathy and smug: "That old woman can't satisfy you, huh? Paolo, be gentle."

Click.

Right on cue, Marco Medici—loyal, patient, saint-like Marco—sent his 99th proposal.

This time, I didn't leave him hanging.

[Want to come over for bollito misto?]

Marco stepped in, steam curling around him like some kind of dramatic entrance effect.

The buzzcut only made his already sharp face sharper.

"I should be fasting today," he said, settling across from me in his all-white habit like some chill, holy hot priest.

Then—he grabbed a slice of meat and popped it in his mouth.

Broth clung to his lips. Distracting. Too distracting.

"Thought you were fasting?"

He licked the corner slow, deliberate. "Fridays are for fasting. But I'd break any rule for you."

I smiled. He remembered.

"Let's eat," I said, mixing a sauce just for him. Yeah, I felt lighter already.

But I kept checking my phone.

Paolo? Dead silent.

This was supposed to be our third anniversary dinner. Instead, he was off playing house with his "childhood friend."

I looked at the sauces—parsley green, pepper red, mustard fruit. Always picked the mild ones for him. He never even showed. That empty chair? A punchline.

After dinner, Marco wiped his mouth, steady now. The rosary slid through his fingers, head bowed, eyes catching a flicker of red. "Aurora, you could marry someone else. Why not me?"

I looked up, one brow raised.

Bold. Unexpected.

But... marrying him?

Could actually work.

Right when I was deep in thought, my phone lit up.

Paolo: [Something came up.]

Of course it did.

I smirked. "Why not? Leave the seminary. Let's get our marriage license."

"What about Paolo—"

"Divorce first."

I dabbed my lips, stood up.

If Paolo couldn't care about the one decent exit I gift-wrapped for him, why should I bother?

***

At one go, I signed twice—divorce, then marriage. Neat little symmetry.

Set a pickup with Marco, then headed back to the house I technically still shared with Paolo. Time to pack.

I pushed the door open—

And there they were.

Paolo Ricci and Zoe Pagano, tangled on the piano bench. My million-dollar grand taking the hits, each sloppy movement pounding out some off-key rhythm.

They froze.

Paolo shoved Zoe off. Tried to play it cool. The damp spot on the bench? Kinda ruined the act.

"Aurora, don't be mad. Paolo was just teaching me piano," Zoe said, tugging her skirt, trying to look like some tragic waif.

Teaching piano? Please. Not with that "hands-on" method.

I gave them one cold glance, nodded like they were strangers, and headed to my room.

Outside my door, the moaning picked up again.

"Mmm, Paolo, slower... Aurora's so pretty. Why do you act starved?"

"She's an ice queen! Years together, couldn't even touch her. No guy wants that. Not like you—soft waist, long legs... total little minx."

He said it loud, like he wanted me to hear.

Too bad he never understood.

I wasn't an ice queen.

I just thought he was disgusting.