Probably thinking I was being defensive, that I was confirming his suspicion with my tone, Simone stepped forward and shoved me. Not hard. Not the way he'd hit a man. But hard enough. His palm against my shoulder, pushing me back with the casual force of a man who has never had to think about the damage his hands can do.
"Goodness, Grazia, stop imagining things! She's practically a sister to me!"
I had just had surgery.
The shove sent me backward and my legs gave out. Pain shot through my lower abdomen, sharp and immediate, a white-hot flare that radiated outward from the place where the baby had been. I hit the ground. My knees struck the linoleum. My hands caught me, barely, and the discharge papers scattered across the floor.
I winced. The sound that came out of me was small and involuntary, the kind of sound you make when your body betrays a pain you were trying to hide.
Silvana was at my side in an instant. Quick. Concerned. The picture of compassion. She knelt beside me and reached for my arm, her voice all worry and warmth. "Oh, Grazia, are you alright? Simone, look what you've done—"
But as she leaned close, her face turned toward mine and away from his line of sight, she smiled. A small, private, mocking smile. The kind that said I know exactly what just happened to you, and I know you can't say a word about it.
I pushed her away. My hands moved before my mind did, a visceral, physical rejection that came from somewhere deeper than thought. Disgust. Pure, clean disgust, the first honest thing I'd felt all day.
I tried to lean against the wall, to pull myself up, to get my legs underneath me. But Silvana flopped down beside me on the floor, her hand flying to her belly, her face contorting into a mask of pain.
"Oh! Oh, my stomach—"
The performance was flawless. The timing, the angle, the way she positioned herself so that Simone could see her distress but not the absence of any actual contact. She hadn't been pushed hard enough to fall. She'd chosen to fall. And she'd chosen to fall holding her belly.
Simone crossed the distance in two strides. He dropped to one knee beside Silvana, his hands on her shoulders, his face white with a fear I had never once seen him show for me.
Then he looked up at me. And the look on his face was something I would carry for a long time.
"Fuck. If anything happens to her, I swear, Grazia, you'll regret this."
Cold sweat broke out across my skin. I felt pain coursing through me while my husband knelt on the floor of a hospital corridor, cradling the woman who carried his child, and looked at me like I was the threat. Like I was the one who had broken something sacred.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A nurse passed at the end of the corridor, glanced at the scene, and kept walking. In this city, you learned not to get involved when a Valente was in the room.
I pressed my back against the wall and breathed. The pain in my abdomen pulsed with each heartbeat. The discharge papers lay scattered on the floor between us, face down, the words hidden.
Maybe I made the right decision not to keep the baby. A man who didn't love his wife wouldn't love his kid either.
When I came back to the Valente estate, the house was empty. The guards were at their posts. The kitchen smelled faintly of the lunch that the housekeeper had prepared and no one had eaten.
I sat at the kitchen table and opened my phone. I was going to write something. I didn't know what yet. Something that would make the silence inside me into words that other people could hear.
Then I saw it.
The latest whisper through the wives' network. Someone had seen Silvana leaving the clinic that afternoon with a man. She'd described him in detail to anyone who would listen. Not his face. His back. The breadth of his shoulders. The way he held the door for her. The way his hand rested on her waist as they walked to the car.
