The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic was the first thing that hit me when I opened my eyes in the hospital room.
Then came the steady beep. Soft, unyielding, a reminder that I was still breathing.
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I had ended up here, until the bitter taste of shrimp returned to my mouth and memory crashed over me: the dinner table, their laughter, my body betraying me.
I let out a slow, shaky breath and turned toward the window. Sunlight streamed in, warm and golden.
I was utterly alone.
Ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand, I pushed myself upright and reached for my phone. The screen lit up with notifications. None from Nico. None from Serafina. None from my parents.
I opened social media. There it was.
A story from Serafina's feed, already deleted, but etched in my mind. The image of them at a private auction house in midtown, one of those invitation-only rooms where laundered money changed hands under crystal lights: laughing, glowing, perfectly staged. My parents beside them. Nico's hand casually resting on her lower back.
The caption: "Celebrating life with those who matter."
A jagged laugh escaped me. So that was it. While I nearly died on the dining room floor, they sipped champagne beneath chandeliers. Well, perhaps it was partly my fault for eating the shrimp. I had hoped this incident might finally make them notice me. I was wrong. I would never belong. Not really. Even as the true daughter, the true blood of the Ferrante name.
I dropped my phone onto the bed. No flowers. No cards. Nothing.
When I asked the nurse if anyone had come by, she shook her head, apologetic. "No visitors so far, ma'am."
Even now. After everything. After the truth about the swap, the heartbreak, the blood tests that proved what should have changed the world. They still loved Serafina more. Always.
And me? I had given them everything: my love, my body, my baby, my name, my future. And in return? Disregard. Disrespect. Contempt.
But I was done.
That afternoon, a message from my lawyer arrived:
Lawyer: Divorce finalized. Official documents on the way.
Then Gianna's message came, as ever my lifeline:
Gianna: Everything's ready. Disappear? Or marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange either.
Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.
I pressed my thumb against the inside of my ring finger, feeling the groove where the band used to sit. The skin there had gone smooth again, like it had already forgotten what it once carried. I wished the rest of me could do the same.
I signed my discharge forms and walked out of the hospital with nothing but my coat and silence. The air outside hit harder than expected, a reminder: there was nothing left for me here. No warmth. No family. No love.
Back at the compound, I gathered a few things before vanishing for good. No one noticed. The estate buzzed with preparations for the annual Ferrante gala, the Feast of San Gennaro celebration where every capo, every allied family, every associate who wanted to keep breathing showed their face and kissed the ring. Guests. Lights. Cases of vintage wine stacked in the service corridors. Serafina, in her element, orchestrating florists and string quartets in the grand hall as though she ruled it all. And maybe she did.
She turned, offering me a smile that never reached her eyes. "Oh, you're back. Bianca... I didn't mean for you to get sick."
Donna Ferrante glanced up from her planner. "She just wants attention. And if she knew she was allergic, why eat it? Useless bitch."
I lowered my gaze. Pain flared, but I swallowed it, refusing to let it consume me.
Then my mother threw a clipboard at me. "Since you're here, help finish the arrangements. And if anything goes wrong, it's on you."
Of course. Always me.
I worked through the night. Every seating chart, every floral centerpiece arranged according to hierarchy so that no capo sat beneath his rank, no rival family brushed shoulders at the wrong table. Every call to the caterer. Every message confirming security detail at the gates. I ate little. Slept less. But I endured. Because I had a plan. Just a few more days.
During a brief pause, I passed the hall and caught Nico and Serafina whispering near the grand piano. His hand brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned too close, and one of the soldiers posted at the far door turned his face away, pretending blindness. Everyone in this house knew. Everyone pretended.
When I walked by, he offered that same old line:
"She's just my friend, Bianca. Always has been. Even before you came along, it was supposed to be us."
His tongue moved along the inside of his lower lip as he said it. That brief, almost invisible motion. I used to miss it. I didn't anymore.
His words made it clear: I was the intruder. The mistake.
I said nothing.
Later, in the guest room, exhaustion finally pulled at me, but sleep refused to come. Faint sounds drifted from down the hall. Soft moans, muffled gasps. Serafina's room. The headboard creaked. Then I recognized Nico's voice, low, intimate, familiar.
I crept toward the hallway and froze outside her half-open door.
Through the narrow gap, I saw them: bodies tangled, slick with sweat, sheets wrapped around them like silk. Her laugh. His groan.
Without a sound, I turned and walked back to my room, heart heavy, stomach twisting.
