The doorbell rang. Odd—Lucas never rang. He just came in.
I opened the door. There they were: Lucas leaning on Anabella, half-drunk, barely keeping upright.
Yes, Anabella. The new hire from last year. Fresh out of college. Supposedly harmless.
“Hey, Valentina,” she chirped, steadying him. “We were out with that Atlantic City client. Mr. Corsini had a bit too much. His car’s downstairs, so I thought I’d help him up.”
Her cheeks were flushed. Her figure tight in a floral dress. She smelled of orange blossoms and lies.
Lucas collapsed onto the couch, unconscious. I took his jacket from her—her perfume clinging to it. Youthful. Tangy. Not mine.
“Thanks, Anabella,” I said evenly. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Oh, no, really—I can call a cab—” she protested, sweet and innocent.
“Nope,” I interrupted. “I’m not letting you wander the city alone this late.”
In the car, she fiddled with her phone, glancing at me. “So… when’s your wedding with Lucas?”
I paused. The memory of our conversation flashed in my mind. “Maybe a year or two,” I said with a forced smile. “Once things settle at the business.”
Or once I figured out if I’d even survive that long.
She nodded quietly, staring out the window. At her door, she waved awkwardly. I returned a tight smile and watched until she disappeared inside.
Then my hand brushed against something lodged in the seatbelt slot. A torn condom wrapper.
Cheap foil, smeared with lube.
I froze.
Anabella’s tight dress, her flushed face, the fake concern, Lucas pretending to be drunk—the hesitant call earlier—and suddenly… it all clicked.
I didn’t know where to start.
---
The day the doctors told me I had brain cancer, I sat on the clinic steps outside Saint Gabriel’s, holding the positive pregnancy test like it was proof the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
The doctor’s words echoed in my head. She had suggested I consider terminating the pregnancy to focus on treatment. I was young, she said, with a fighting chance. “You’ve got a solid shot, Valentina. Don’t be scared.”
Seven years. Everything we built—our import company, the real estate flips, even the Midtown nightclub—was ours. Last year, finally, we turned a profit. A decent car. A loft in Tribeca, waiting for renovations. If I hadn’t fallen sick… maybe next spring, I’d be cradling our baby in my arms.
My baby. Our baby.
But tonight, Lucas wasn’t coming home. I cooked a simple bowl of pasta, tossed in some greens, and sat silently at the kitchen table, wondering how I’d ever break the news to him. We’d promised each other last year. He’d slip the ring on my finger before spring. “Before the spring, Valentina,” he said. “I swear it on my name.”
---
We’d been together since freshman year. Back then, I worked shifts at a 24-hour diner near campus, scraping together tuition one plate at a time.
Lucas? Mafia royalty. Tall. Relentless. Loaded. The first night he walked in, he gagged on the greasy lamb gyros he ordered—but kept coming back, night after night, for six months. Said it was “business.” Funny, he was just trying to get my number.
The night I finally agreed to date him, he ate three gyros like a dare—and then vomited in the alley behind the diner. To this day, the smell of tzatziki makes him retch.
He always claimed I was too proud. So instead of flaunting his wealth, he’d sit beside me in the cafeteria, slipping protein bars and fruit into my bag when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“What if my future wife passes out from low iron?” he’d grin. “Can’t let that happen, can we?”
I never understood why he liked me.
He was six-two, jaw sharp, every step exuding power. His name carried weight. Money flowed like wine.
And me? Just a waitress with no family, no status, and an abundance of pride.
But once Lucas decided on something, nothing could sway him.
---
That Christmas Eve, he brought me to meet his parents. I was stiff, in a cheap wool coat, clutching a plastic-wrapped chocolate cake bought with tip money.
His parents were cold but polite—the kind of politeness that made your skin crawl.
After dinner, one of the maids whispered to his father. He tapped Lucas’s arm with hawk-like fingers.
“Come.”
I sat alone, feeling like a blemish on their marble floor. Then his voice echoed from the hall:
“She knows who you are, doesn’t she? What does a girl like that want? A gold digger! She has nothing to offer—no name, no lineage!”
It hit me like a punch to the chest.
Then—slam. A door closed.
