Giana
My birthday arrived like a funeral: quiet and inevitable.
Franco was trying too hard. He'd filled the penthouse with an obscene number of balloons and booked a private dinner at a vineyard upstate.
He was playing the part of the devoted fiancé perfectly, eager to bridge the gap the hospital incident had created.
He drove us in his vintage convertible, his hand gripping mine across the console with a possessive force, as if the pressure of his palm could mend the cracks between us.
We were driving along a winding mountain road when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, his body stiffening visibly. Before he could think, he answered on speaker.
"Franco!" A woman's voice, high and panicked, screamed through the car's speakers.
It was Camilla.
"There's blood everywhere! I'm freaking out!"
Franco slammed on the brakes.
The car skidded, then stopped abruptly on the shoulder.
He turned to look at me. His eyes were wide with panic, a frantic, cornered look.
"Get out," he breathed.
I stared at him, unable to process the words for a moment. "What?"
"I have to go back. She's... it's an emergency. Gia, get out. I'll call you a car."
"You're leaving me on the side of a mountain?" Even knowing the betrayal, I was stunned by his audacity. "On my birthday?"
"She needs me!" he roared, slamming his fist against the leather of the steering wheel.
He reached across me and pushed my door open.
I got out. Gravel crunched under my heels.
He was gone before I could close the door. The engine roared, and the taillights of the convertible disappeared into the darkness, leaving me in the pitch black.
I stood there for a moment, the silence of the woods pressing in on me like a physical weight.
The cold was biting. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering, and started to walk.
My phone vibrated against my hip.
I pulled it out. A text from Camilla.
A photo of a small white stick with two blue lines. She was pregnant.
He's coming home to his real family. Sorry your party got ruined.
I didn't cry. Instead, I felt not sadness, but a strange cold that settled into my bones, a frost over a burn. The pain was there, but distant, muffled by the凝固的决心 solidifying in my chest.
I walked for two miles, the only sound the rhythm of my heels on the asphalt, until I found a spot with service. My phone rang again. Not Franco.
A video call request.
I answered.
Lorenzo Falcone filled the screen.
He was in a dimly lit room, shadows obscuring most of his form, just the sharp planes of his face visible. His eyes were two dark voids, seeming to absorb all light.
"Giana. Happy Birthday." he said. His voice was low, rough, as if it traveled through the device and settled into the bones of my hand.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Closer than you think," he replied. His dark eyes scanned my face, taking in my wind-tangled hair, the dark background. "Why are you walking on the side of the road?"
"Taking a walk," I lied.
He didn't believe me. "Tell me you're ready."
I stopped walking.
I looked up at the moon, pale and indifferent, hanging over the trees.
I was done being the victim. I was done being a stepping stone for someone else's happiness.
"I'm ready, Enzo," I whispered.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm coming home to take you. And I don't share."
I smiled. It was the first genuine smile I'd had in months.
"I accept," I said.
The wedding was soon.
And the real husband was clearly ready.
We were going to make a scene.
