In the end, I stopped arguing.
The family portrait remained exactly where Alessandro had placed it, hanging in pride of place on the marble wall of the mansion—a mansion built with my inheritance and sustained by decades of my labor—as though my absence from that portrait was the most natural thing in the world.
The pain inside me gradually changed. It no longer cut sharply enough to bring tears, yet it never softened enough to heal. Instead, it hollowed me from within until I felt strangely empty, as though something essential had been carved out of my chest and taken away long ago. And then, from somewhere inside that emptiness, an absurd impulse rose without warning.
I laughed.
The sound startled even me.
Thirty years.
I had spent thirty years trapped in a life so pitiful, so absurd, that laughter suddenly felt more appropriate than grief.
For the first time in decades, a small voice stirred somewhere deep inside me. It was faint, almost timid, yet stubborn enough that it refused to disappear.
What if, just once, I chose myself?
The thought felt foreign, almost sinful.
I gathered the few things that still belonged solely to me—old academic certificates, property titles, bank documents, and papers bearing my maiden name—and placed them carefully inside a leather folder. After securing it, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
I did not know when the tears began, nor when they finally stopped. At some point, exhaustion overtook sorrow, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
I woke when the bedroom door creaked open.
Alessandro entered carrying the familiar scent of expensive whiskey, cigar smoke, and the faint trace of Luciana’s perfume clinging stubbornly to his suit. His steps were uneven, and before I could fully collect myself, his hand closed around my arm and pulled me upright.
“You and Luciana came from the same family,” he said, his words slurred by alcohol yet sharpened by irritation. “So tell me, how did she become elegant, graceful, and captivating, while you…” His gaze swept over me without restraint, lingering on every flaw age and labor had carved into my body. “You turned into this bitter woman who sees nothing beyond her own resentment.”
His lip curled.
“Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in you.”
The question hung between us.
Strangely, I felt no urge to defend myself.
Instead, I found myself wondering the same thing.
What had he seen in me?
My gaze dropped to the dress I wore. The fabric had faded from years of washing and repairing, the seams mended so many times that the stitches no longer matched. I had never thrown it away for one simple reason.
It still served its purpose.
Alessandro, on the other hand, had always been meticulous about appearances. As the head of the Montenegro Crime Family, he could not afford disorder. Every suit was tailored. Every cufflink polished. Every crease pressed flat.
Every morning, I ironed his shirts until they looked flawless.
Presentable.
Refined.
Much like Luciana.
Alessandro shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it toward me.
Under normal circumstances, my body would have reacted before thought. I would have caught it before it touched the floor, brushed away any dust, hung it neatly, and laid out his nightclothes exactly as I had done for thirty years.
But tonight, something inside me refused.
For the first time in decades, I felt no desire to care for him.
I let the jacket fall.
Then I lay back down and closed my eyes.
“What are you sulking about now?” he snapped. “Do you think you’re some young woman throwing a tantrum because she didn’t get her way?”
His voice sharpened.
“This behavior isn’t charming at your age. It’s embarrassing. Don’t make me lose what little respect I still have for you.”
I said nothing.
Mistaking my silence for weakness, he pressed on.
“Look at yourself. Your skin has lost its glow, your beauty is long gone, and yet you still expect comfort?”
He let out a cold laugh.
“Do you think you’re Luciana? Do you imagine that if you act delicate like her, I’ll suddenly pity you? Watching you imitate her is pathetic.”
I still did not move.
Outwardly, I remained still, but inside, my heart pounded so violently that each beat thundered in my ears.
When Alessandro finally realized he would get no reaction from me, frustration darkened his expression. Muttering under his breath, he turned and disappeared into the bathroom.
Silence returned.
I kept my eyes closed, but my thoughts had never felt clearer.
Then, without warning, a memory surfaced.
Thirty years ago, Luciana confessed her feelings to Alessandro.
He rejected her.
Or at least, that was what I had believed.
Afterward, he came to me.
I remembered that night with painful clarity. We had stood on the balcony of my father’s estate, the city glittering below like spilled gold, the distant sound of jazz drifting up from a private party downstairs. Alessandro had taken both my hands in his, holding them with a tenderness that felt utterly sincere.
“Celeste,” he whispered, his dark eyes fixed on mine, “I can’t imagine a life without you.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
“I’ve spent my whole life drifting from one deal, one city, one war to another. I never belonged anywhere. But with you…” His voice softened. “With you, I feel like I’ve finally found home.”
At the time, everyone believed Alessandro and Luciana would end up together.
They were the golden pair of our social circle.
They shared charisma, ambition, and a hunger for excitement I had never possessed. They understood one another in ways I often felt I never could. More than once, I wondered whether they were the ones truly meant to be together.
When I finally confessed that fear, Alessandro looked at me with such steady sincerity that my doubts melted.
“Dreams are fleeting, Celeste,” he told me softly. “Reality is what matters. You build a future with someone dependable—someone strong enough to keep both feet on the ground.”
I believed him.
For thirty years, I believed him.
Only now did I understand what those words had truly meant.
From the very beginning, I had been the sacrifice.
Because I was capable, I was expected to endure.
Because I was dependable, I became the one burdened with responsibility.
Because I carried everything without complaint, everyone assumed I could carry more.
I became the foundation upon which everyone else built their freedom.
And Luciana?
Luciana remained untouched by burdens. She moved through life draped in silk and admiration, free to chase beauty, attention, and applause without ever being asked to shoulder the ordinary weight of daily life.
Alessandro married me, yes—but in doing so, he gained something priceless.
With me managing the household, organizing finances, smoothing conflicts between relatives, entertaining wives of allies, and keeping the family stable behind closed doors, he preserved the freedom to continue chasing the very dreams he claimed were meaningless.
A terrible realization slowly formed in my mind.
What if this had been his intention all along?
The thought churned inside me like a gathering storm.
How much of a person could disappear over thirty years before nothing remained of who she once was?
I clenched my jaw and forced the rising storm back down.
Just as a fragile stillness began settling over the room, a sharp ringtone shattered the silence.
Alessandro’s phone, left charging on the nightstand beside the bathroom door, lit up in the darkness.
The caller ID glowed bright against the screen.
Luciana.
