I swept aside the wedding decorations I had painstakingly arranged, letting them crash to the floor like shards of a life that had never truly been mine. The estate—once a vision of shared power and prosperity—now felt hollow, alien, stripped of meaning. Only the collection of tickets remained, small relics of my devotion to Lorenzo Martinni, a record of loyalty that had been mine alone.
For a long, still moment, I stared at them. Then, deliberately, I set them aflame. Each ticket curled into smoke, the scent acrid and bitter, carrying with it fragments of my past, fragments of my love. The fire burned itself out, leaving only ashes and a lingering sting in the air—the same bitterness that had settled over the love Lorenzo and I had once shared.
Morning crept in, bringing with it the faint aroma of breakfast. It drifted through the halls, a mundane tether to the world outside my grief.
“Adriana, breakfast is ready. Come down,” Lorenzo’s voice threaded through our communicator, calm, yet firm, like a Don expecting his lieutenant to comply.
“You eat first. I’ll deliver the tray to Gabriella myself,” I replied, my voice neutral, carefully devoid of emotion.
“Very well,” he said, acquiescing, his tone tinged with cautious calculation.
Sensing the distance I had placed between us, Lorenzo retrieved the first-aid kit with precision, tending to the bruises on my knee. His touch, once comforting, now felt measured, almost clinical, yet still attentive—an echo of care stripped of intimacy.
“Adriana,” he said quietly, eyes steady, “we have been tied together for years. Everything I have done—every move, every decision—was meant to protect you. I cannot abide seeing you without family on the day of our union.”
“You mentioned a maid of honor?” I asked, voice tight, edged with controlled bitterness. “I have already asked Gabriella. She agreed.”
Lorenzo’s amber eyes flickered with disbelief at my prompt compliance. He pressed a fleeting kiss to my hand, lingering just long enough to expect a reaction. I remained still, unmoved.
After I delivered breakfast to Gabriella, Lorenzo did not return immediately. I scrubbed my hands at the sink, the sting grounding me in reality, when his voice finally cut through the quiet.
“Finish your meal and come to the garage. I’ll be waiting.”
When I arrived, I instinctively opened the front passenger door—only to find Gabriella already seated there. Without a word, I climbed into the rear seat. Lorenzo’s occasional glances at me carried a faint satisfaction, a quiet acknowledgment of my understanding.
“Gabriella is skilled with jewelry,” he said lightly. “She will help you pick a ring befitting the occasion.”
I closed my eyes, pretending to rest, but when I opened them again, I saw him lightly pinch Gabriella’s cheek. Our eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror. He explained quickly, almost flustered: “She had something on her face. I was merely helping her.” I shut my eyes again, refusing to witness further intimacy.
At the jeweler’s, Gabriella commanded the room, each movement deliberate, each gesture precise. The associate greeted her warmly, recognizing the authority she projected.
“What may I assist you with today, sir? Something special for your loved one?”
Both Lorenzo and Gabriella flushed at the formal address. He guided me closer. “Do not linger so far away. Come, choose your ring.”
Gabriella took control immediately, her inspection meticulous and critical. “Too small. The color is wrong…” No other ring met her exacting standards. Finally, she presented a simple, unassuming piece, its very simplicity designed to humiliate rather than honor.
“This will do for the wedding,” she said, pride and calculated control mingled in her voice. “I shall craft a more exquisite one later.”
The associate offered polite praise, awkwardly deferring to her authority. Lorenzo stood silently beside her, smiling softly, his warmth clearly reserved for her. Without ceremony, he slid the ring onto my finger—no kneeling, no flowers, no declaration—only a deliberate diminishment. I removed it silently, refusing to acknowledge her mockery.
“Let us finalize this. No further complication,” I said flatly, shutting down any possibility of discussion.
Lorenzo’s lips pressed together in mild frustration. “If this is unsatisfactory, we may commission another later.”
“No,” I said firmly. “This one suffices.”
Gabriella’s eyes gleamed with feigned humility. “I shall ensure the wedding is perfect from the studio,” she said and left without a backward glance. Lorenzo called after her in vain.
“Why make a fuss over a simple ring?” he asked, bewildered, guiding me from the store.
“What fuss? This is reality,” I said, the sharpness of my tone leaving no room for debate.
He held me briefly, the warmth of his embrace a hollow comfort. “Once work concludes, we will travel—a honeymoon, with portraits and all,” he promised. But it felt cruelly hollow. He had no time for me in Lunaria, yet Gabriella in Glaciara received all his attention: the penguins, the northern lights, the staged adventures that were never mine.
Two days passed. He did not return. He was with Gabriella, orchestrating images, posing for staged photographs, even photoshopping bridal memories that should have belonged to me. I visited the cemetery, leaving two bouquets, prepaying ten years’ fees, tending to my parents’ resting place. Even here, in the sacred silence of their graves, his absence cut deep, a betrayal sharper than any physical wound.
Then I heard the voice I would never forget. “Lorenzo… remarkable that you remember this day,” someone said lightly. I turned stiffly to see Lorenzo ascending the cemetery steps, flanked by Gabriella and her mother.
“This is my duty,” he said casually, as though nothing of import had occurred. Their ease, their laughter, their casual claiming of family ties, pierced me like knives.
I met with friends to reveal the cancellation of the wedding, their knowing glances confirming the full measure of his betrayal.
“Adriana,” they said quietly, “we support your choice. Watching Gabriella attempt to steal a wedding—without the bride present—will be unforgettable.”
The day before the ceremony, Lorenzo arrived with new running shoes. I asked calmly, “Aren’t these against your preference?”
He patted my head with a faint, insincere smile. “Tomorrow, I must run swiftly—with the bride on my back.” Not me. Not for me. Every gesture, every word, existed solely to humiliate, to elevate her at my expense.
I walked the venue, tearing down my youthful image from every giant poster, and fled to the airport. His calls flooded in, but I ignored them entirely, severing the past, leaving him behind, and walking forward with nothing but the bitter clarity of my own resolve.
