Freedom.
That was all I had ever wanted.
Not power, not money, not the prestige that came with being the wife of a feared mafia boss—only a small piece of freedom, a little happiness that belonged to me alone. Yet in the eyes of my family, even that modest desire had somehow become selfish, as though wanting something for myself after devoting an entire lifetime to them was an unforgivable betrayal.
I lowered my gaze and pressed a hand against my chest, where a dull ache had begun to spread. With every breath, it tightened until it felt as though invisible fingers were slowly closing around my heart.
“She has always been stubborn once she sets her mind on something.”
Alessandro’s voice broke through the silence. He shook his head as he reached for his violin, settling it across his lap as though nothing meaningful had happened between us.
“She has spent years envying her sister,” he continued, his tone carrying the quiet certainty of someone passing judgment on a matter already decided. “But everyone has a place in this world, and not everyone gets to choose their life. Some people are born to wander. Others are born to build and preserve what they have. It is better to accept reality than waste your life chasing fantasies that were never meant for you.”
His fingers moved across the strings, and a slow melody drifted through the mansion.
The music was soft, almost beautiful, yet every note felt cruel.
Alessandro did not raise his voice, nor did he look toward our bedroom, but he did not need to. He knew I could hear every word.
Accept reality.
I turned the phrase over in my mind.
Was acceptance simply another word for surrender? Was maturity nothing more than learning how to bury every desire until even you forgot what you had once wanted?
Before I could sink deeper into those thoughts, the intercom chimed from downstairs.
Someone had arrived.
A second later, Alessandro’s voice rang through the house, suddenly bright with warmth.
“Luciana? Why didn’t you call ahead?”
Then came my sister’s laughter, light and effortless, the kind that always drew people in.
“I wanted to surprise everyone. Life becomes dull if nothing unexpected ever happens, doesn’t it?”
Nico’s excited voice echoed through the hall.
“Grandma Luciana! You’re finally here!”
The entire house changed in an instant.
Energy rushed through every room as though sunlight itself had entered with her. Alessandro stood so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. He ordered the staff to prepare refreshments, personally selected tea from the cabinet, and even straightened his shirt with an eagerness I had not seen from him in years.
Then Luciana spoke again, her voice wrapped in practiced sweetness.
“Where is Celeste? Isn’t my dear sister coming to greet me?”
Alessandro froze.
Only briefly.
So briefly that no one else would have noticed.
Then he laughed, though there was no warmth in it.
“She’s sulking,” he said. “Apparently, she’s decided she wants to travel the world like some carefree girl. The older she gets, the more childish she becomes.”
Luciana let out a soft chuckle.
The sound was gentle, affectionate even, but I knew her too well not to hear the blade hidden beneath the silk.
“You have such a warm family here,” she said. “To be honest, I almost envy her. She has everything a woman could ask for, and still she cannot appreciate it. She wants to throw it all away for fleeting fantasies?”
She paused before continuing, her voice lowering into something sweet enough to disguise the poison underneath.
“But don’t be too harsh on Celeste. She has always been rather self-centered, even when we were young. I understand her nature. I’m only sorry all of you have to endure it.”
The moment my name left her lips, the atmosphere shifted.
Even from upstairs, I could feel it.
Warmth turned into discomfort.
Joy curdled into irritation.
Sensing the tension, our son quickly stepped in.
“Let’s not talk about unpleasant things tonight,” he said. “Aunt Luciana is here. Why don’t we go out and have dinner together? We should celebrate.”
Alessandro agreed immediately.
“Of course. We have a world-class artist under our roof tonight. She deserves to be treated properly.”
Nico clapped in delight.
“Yes! Dinner! Grandma Luciana is the best!”
Soon the mansion filled with laughter, hurried footsteps, and overlapping conversations as everyone prepared to leave.
Then the sounds faded.
A door closed.
Silence settled over the house.
After a long while, I rose from the bed and walked slowly into the sitting room.
It was empty.
They had all gone.
Not one of them had called my name.
Not one had asked if I wanted to come.
I lowered myself onto the couch and stared at the large mirror mounted above the fireplace, where my reflection regarded me with merciless honesty.
An aging woman.
A body softened by time.
Hair dull and hastily tied back.
Shoulders bent from years of carrying burdens no one acknowledged.
Perhaps they were not wrong.
Compared to Luciana, I was nothing.
She had never married. She belonged to no one and answered to no one. She moved from city to city, attending galas, charity auctions, and private performances for politicians, billionaires, and underworld elites alike.
I had done the opposite.
I married Alessandro.
I gave everything to this family.
I raised our son.
I cared for our grandson.
I buried my dreams so deeply that I forgot they had ever existed.
And in return, I had become little more than a servant expected to smile while keeping everyone comfortable.
My gaze shifted to the family portrait hanging at the center of the wall.
Five smiling faces stared back.
They looked happy.
Complete.
Perfect.
But I was not among them.
I remembered why.
That week, I had been confined to the hospital after breaking my leg in a fall. While I lay there in pain, Alessandro had taken Luciana and the rest of the family to have the portrait commissioned.
Without me.
When I confronted him, he had shown no guilt.
“Celeste, Luciana has no family of her own,” he said. “She’s lonely. I only wanted to give her a sense of belonging. Besides, she’s your sister. I care about her because she matters to you.”
He hung that portrait in the heart of our home.
He smiled whenever he looked at it.
But the moment he noticed my silence, his tone hardened.
“She’s your sister,” he said sharply. “Are you really this jealous? You’ve always envied her. When will you grow up? Family should support family.”
I stared at the portrait now, at those smiling faces I had once believed were my home.
And as I looked at them, a question surfaced from somewhere deep inside me.
When had I disappeared?
At what point had I stopped existing in my own life?
